Alethiology
by StormLeviosa
Summary: A sequel to 'The Spy in 221B'. Alex went missing from 221B over a month ago but before he left he left Rosie a trail of clues to follow which would lead her to the truth about his life. Meanwhile, John and Sherlock are searching for their friend and neighbour with the help of a few familiar faces. Rating may go up as story progresses.
1. Chapter 1

Chapter 1- Somewhere Only We Know

 **Text from: John**

 _Mrs Hudson wants to know if you're coming home for Christmas. If you are she'll get a bigger turkey._

Rosie watched the rain fall and wondered why it didn't snow. The lights on the tree twinkled like jewels and the presents beneath it beckoned, begging to be unwrapped. Uncle Sherlock was playing the violin, the mournful, soothing strains of 'Silent Night' flowing across the room. She had her own violin to play but she was happy to listen to her uncle instead of practice herself. There wouldn't be a white Christmas this year; she didn't know where the idea came from when she couldn't remember such a thing ever happening. "Rosie," her dad called from the stairs, "can you help with the shopping?" She slipped from the chair with a sigh, trotting to the door to let him in. His left shoulder was wet, busy streets and an uncooperative umbrella apparently, and he appeared disgruntled so he must have had a poor time of it at the local Tesco. She took a bag into the kitchen, staggering slightly with its weight. Looking towards the dark street outside, she whispered sadly: "where are you Uncle Alex?"

Rosie, like any self-respecting six year old, woke at what John considered the crack of dawn. She woke him by leaping onto his bed giggling excitedly in his ear. "It's Christmas, Dad. It's Christmas." Groaning, he rolled over to check the time. 5:30am. He closed his eyes and pretended to ignore her, hoping- perhaps unfairly- that she would go back to bed if he refused to acknowledge her. "Dad," she whined "wake up; it's Christmas." With a sigh of consternation, he slid from the warmth of the covers to the chill of his wooden floor. Rosie squealed with delight and bounded down the stairs. He could hear Sherlock stirring grumpily in the living room as Rosie appeared and he followed his daughter at a more sedate pace. She crouched at the foot of the tree where a mound of presents lay. She pulled out the first, a box from Sherlock wrapped in brown paper, just as Mrs Hudson appeared with the morning tea, dressing gown wrapped securely around her and slippered feet making little noise on the carpet. "You're up early, John." He gave her a wry grin and inclined his head in Rosie's direction. She set down the tray and remained standing in the doorway as Rosie began to unwrap her presents.

The presents were cleared away by lunchtime. Mrs Hudson had returned to her flat to cook for them; her Yorkshire puddings were legendary and the turkey needed time rest. Wrapping paper littered the floor in gaudy mounds where she had left them. Her dad was trying to convince her to clean the room but she was far too preoccupied with playing with her new toys (Molly had got her a brand new code breaking game she had quickly become engrossed in). It wasn't until she started to sweep the paper out from beneath the tree that she discovered the hastily wrapped gift hidden in the corner. Frowning slightly, she pulled it out. "What've you got there, Rosie?" Uncle Sherlock snorted derisively from his position by the window where he watched the quiet street below. "Isn't it obvious, John? She found an unexpected present. It must be from Alex- only he would wrap something like that." She looked down at the tag, sure enough, it read: 'For Rosie from Alex' in his small, upright letters, and nodded. Uncle Sherlock looked almost pleased. She tore the paper off and almost ripped the letter within before stopping herself. She set it aside and turned to the present itself. She tried not to be disappointed by what she saw. He had left her a memory stick, red on a cheap and touristy keyring. Her dad had picked up the letter and she heard his sudden intake of breath. Looking up at him, she saw the sadness in his eyes and wondered what the letter said. He sat down beside her and, finger following the words, read her letter aloud.

 _Rosie,_

 _If you are reading this letter, I am unable to be here this Christmas and I am sorry. The first thing you need to know is that it is not your fault in any way, nor is it your Dad's or Sherlock's. If it is anyone's fault, it is mine. I wish nothing more than to be at home with you but it is impossible, for reasons you will soon find out._

 _The memory stick contains your Christmas present from me- your first clue to all you will ever need to know. I have left a trail for you to follow, breadcrumbs like Hansel and Gretel followed through the forest. Your Dad probably will not approve of you pursuing the truth; he knows my story for himself. Let Sherlock help instead._

 _I hope you've kept up with your French._

 _Merry Christmas from your Uncle,_

 _Alex_

John and Sherlock shared a significant look over Rosie's head. They had heard nothing from Alex since he had left Baker Street over a month ago on Rosie's birthday but, until that moment, they hadn't been too worried. Alex left for weeks at a time very often and rarely with sufficient warning or explanation. This sounded far too similar to Sherlock's own 'note' for John's liking though and he could tell Sherlock thought the same. Rosie had moved from her place on the floor, however, and had dragged out John's laptop. The screen lit up and his most recent half-finished blog post opened. Rosie impatiently closed in. John had a heart-stopping moment of terror before realising he had, in fact, saved it. Then she plugged in her memory stick. A folder popped up, the only file a video clip. She clicked on it. Alex's face filled the screen. It had obviously been made some time ago for his hair was it's natural blonde and his eyes a clear brown. He looked healthier than John had seen him in a while and he was smiling that special smile he only used for Rosie. Sherlock visibly started when he began to speak, the rapid fire French was impossible for John to follow but to which Rosie was listening intently.

 _Bonjour, Rosie!_

 _J'espère que vous passez un bon Noël et ne me manquez pas trop. Si vous regardez ceci, je ne suis évidemment pas disponible pour répondre moi-même à vos questions mais je sais que vous êtes assez intelligent pour le comprendre._

 _Voici mon premier indice:_

 _Je t'ai dit beaucoup d'histoires. La plupart ne sont pas vraies. Mais, de tous ceux que j'ai dit, les plus incroyables sont ceux qui sont réels. Aller à l'endroit où commence notre histoire et vous trouverez votre prochain fil d'ariane._

 _Bonne chasse._

 **Author's Note:**

As promised, here is the first chapter of the sequel to 'The Spy in 221B'. I waited until Christmas Eve so the timing matched with the story slightly better. I will attempt a posting schedule of a chapter every two weeks for the first few chapters but I don't know if I'll be able to keep it up. While on the topic of chapters, each chapter title will be a reference to something, whether it be a song, book, TV show or film. Send me a message or post your guesses as reviews for virtual congratulations.

A brief note on the French in this chapter: my French skills are negligible to non-existent. The note came from Google Translate so if anyone has a better translation (read. if anyone speaks French) please let me know. A rough translation is below:

 _Hello, Rosie!_

 _I hope you have a good Christmas and don't miss me too much. If you are watching this, I am obviously not around to answer your questions myself, but I know you are smart enough to figure it out._

 _Here is my first clue: I told you many stories. Most are not true. But, of all those I told, the most fantastic are the ones that are real. Go to where our story begins and you will find your next breadcrumb._

 _Happy hunting._


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Note:**

The response to chapter 1 has been incredible! I'm so happy!

Thank you to everyone who favourited or followed this story- you guys are wonderful.

You get an early update because I have mock exams the week after next and I want to spend next weekend revising as much as possible so you get a new year's treat. We're not doing anything exiting but I hope that, wherever you are, you have a great new year. In other news, I have a tumblr account (reluctantly) I will not be posting any of this on my blog but you are welcome to follow me (I have the same username as on here and AO3).

No one took up the challenge last time but for those who were wondering, the chapter title ('Somewhere Only We Know') was a song by a band called 'Keane' although I would have accepted Lily Allen, who performed a cover version for the John Lewis Christmas advert (those who live in the UK may remember the bear and the hare advert from 2013). This time, I'll give you a clue: it's from a musical.

Enjoy the chapter.

Chapter 2- We Dream in the Dark

 **Text from: John**

 _Rosie really misses you. I tried to tell her not to get you anything for christmas today but she insisted. If you're not coming back to Baker Street at least send me your new address._

Sherlock received his first summonings from Mycroft about three weeks after Alex's disappearance. As always, he ignored the calls at first, answering only when John reprimanded him for ignoring his brother. The conversation went something like this:

"Would it kill you to text?"

"Would it kill you to answer the phone?"

"Tell me what the problem is and go away. I'm busy."

"Is that the way to treat your brother, Sherlock? Honestly, you have no manners."

"Just get on with it."

"Your neighbour has dropped off his employer's radar. They have searched all over London but found nothing."

"Tell them to look again, then."

Mycroft hung up the phone abruptly and didn't ring again. The conversation was forgotten and life went on. They had a case down in Battersea that took far longer than expected (the perpetrator had, for once, an identical twin who they had worked together with) and Christmas came far too early. He hated it. Everyone was frustratingly cheerful, there were no crimes to solve, and even Scotland Yard closed for a long weekend. He was bored. Then Rosie found her gift from Alex.

It was a little known fact that Rosie was afraid of the dark. When she was very young, waking up in the middle of the night resulted in tears and huddling in terror beneath her blankets, teddy bear clutched tight to her chest. She told no one of her fear. None of her friends at school were scared of the dark and Dad got little enough sleep anyway running around after Uncle Sherlock; she couldn't disturb him. If she turned on the light, Uncle Sherlock would come but he was not the most sympathetic and she already knew it was illogical without his condescension. They were both so brave and she was scared of silly things. Uncle Alex was the one who gave her a torch. It helped a bit; when she woke now she could shine the torch around the room to check for monsters and leave it on so none could creep up on her. But the batteries ran out quickly and she didn't want to bother anyone by asking for new ones. Often she would sneak down to the kitchen and drink a glass of water before going back to bed but it felt wrong somehow, like she was an intruder in her own home. Then Alex looked after her for the week while Dad and Uncle Sherlock were away.

Much as he loved Alex, John had always been wary of the younger man. There were secrets in his past that neither he nor Sherlock would ever know, secrets that could cost any of them their lives. He was uncertain of leaving his daughter with him at first. Then Alex rescued her. He was still conflicted (would Rosie have been kidnapped if it weren't for Alex?) but he trusted the young spy to do whatever it took to protect his friends. It was a long time before he left them alone overnight, however. The first time, he and Sherlock had to travel to Edinburgh for a case with no idea of how long it would take. He left Rosie with Alex. When they returned, the pair were joined at the hip with Rosie enraptured by his stories. John woke several times in the following weeks to Rosie sneaking down to visit. He allowed it after speaking directly to Alex and finding out why. Rosie had trouble sleeping, she went to Alex, Alex told her stories until she fell asleep. It was a simple solution to a simple problem. He wanted his daughter kept out of the dangerous life the spy led though. He hadn't known what Alex's Christmas gift would cause when he found the note in his pocket, just put the small package under the tree like instructed.

Rosie couldn't remember all of the stories her uncle Alex told her. The fairy tales, sure, because they were kind of stories everyone told all of the time. Some of his adventure stories she could remember: the stories of a teenager fighting against international terrorists and wrestling with crocodiles or snowboarding down mountains on an ironing board. She could not remember him ever telling stories about the pair of them. She asked her uncle Sherlock for his opinion but he hadn't been told the stories so he didn't know. He was not being particularly helpful that day - her dad said he was in a 'fractious mood', whatever that meant. She asked her dad; he didn't know either so she decided to sleep on it. In the darkness of her room, she tried to recreate the experience in her mind. Alex's voice, soft and comforting, and the dim glow of her torch to penetrate the darkness. She couldn't remember. Why couldn't she remember? Where had their story began?

Far away from Baker Street, locked away underground, a young man woke from unwanted slumber in a darkness so absolute he could not see further than his nose. He could still hear, however, and feel and smell. There was a definite, distinctive effluvia from somewhere nearby. It made him wrinkle his nose in disgust, thankful that, despite his current predicament, at least he did not smell quite so bad as whatever was kept next door. He was cuffed and chained and gagged, but not blindfolded: it was too dark for such folly. Beyond the walls of his cell, he could hear cars racing by on their oblivious journeys and gulls squawking indignantly as they were denied food for the upteenth time. It made him chuckle darkly. The world had continued without him, just as he always told them it would.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3 - The Family Business

 **Text from: John**

 _Tom Harris came by today and asked if you were around. Where are you?_

In the dead of night, Rosie woke from her slumber with Alex's voice running through her head and a story she only just remembered. "The first time John Watson met Alex Rider, the boy was huddled half dead on the steps of 221B." She didn't know who Alex Rider was, other than the tales she was told of the teenage spy. It wasn't her uncle. But her dad's name was John Watson. She lived in 221B. Could it be that she had solved the clue? She scrambled out of bed and, grabbing her torch, rushed down the stairs to the door. Standing on a stool to unhook the chain, she didn't hear uncle Sherlock approach from the living room until he was right behind her. "You figured it out. I'll come with you." He undid the latch and chain and followed her out the door.

"So, how did you do it?" He asked her at the same time as she asked the inevitable.

"Is uncle Alex's real name Alex Rider?" He didn't know how to respond. On the one hand, Alex had never forbade him from telling her. On the other, it still somehow felt like a betrayal of his secrets, bringing the life he had sought to avoid into his one remaining escape. Yet it seemed he had told her most of it anyway. "Yes." In the soft glow of the street light, her face was achingly young: scrunched up in a confused scowl. "But why did he lie? It's just a name." Sherlock sighed and watched her crouch on the bottom step. She was examining the brickwork intently, the joining between the paving slabs, the thickness of the cement. He considered his response. "Some names are dangerous to know. Alex's is one of them." She stopped tapping the stones and gazed up at him, face open in its sincerity. Sherlock wondered what it was like to be that innocent, that naive. "I won't tell." Then she resumed her tapping. Evidently, she had read too many amateurish mystery novels - there would be no echoing space beneath stone. After an age of Sherlock wishing he had brought his scarf, she found the loose slab on the top step instead of the bottom and, with some help for the heavy lifting, unveiled the hole underneath.

John's phone started buzzing at around 9am and didn't stop until he left the surgery at 4pm. It had been a long and difficult day, his patients were impatient and cantankerous with disgruntled frowns. There had been a persistent case of the flu going around which he had, fortunately, been yet to catch but his coworkers had been in and out with sickness since before Christmas so it was only a matter of time. He had been so rushed off his feet he couldn't check the stream of messages; he barely had time for a lunch break. Walking to the station, he flicked through them. A couple from Sherlock asking him to get eggs, bread and, weirdly, soy sauce. A few comments on his blog. Then about ten from Mycroft with four missed calls. The texts were harried and curt, empty of all but the most necessary of facts. He had left no messages. 'The Bank had called. They were worried about Alex. Get Sherlock to call him immediately.' He rolled him eyes at his pretentiousness. On top of that, there was a message from William: his unit were on leave for the next few months and could they meet at some point soon? He replied with an affirmative and told him when they would likely be free next week. It was sudden but not unwelcome. He didn't suspect the two were linked.

Her dad came home just as she was settling down with her uncle Sherlock to translate the sheaf of documents they had found. He swung a carrier bag onto the counter and clattered around putting away the eggs and bread. Chucking his phone to her uncle Sherlock, he told him about a series of messages from Mycroft. Uncle Sherlock groaned dramatically and tossed the phone back down on the table. "Just call him," her dad ground out. "He's been trying to get in contact all day and it's only going to get worse." He turned the phone over in his hands and read through the texts, then flopped on his back on the couch, fingers steepled under his chin. The phone remained in his hands as he thought. "Fine! But only because of the message he left Rosie." She perked up from her perusal of the file at that. What were they getting into now? The conversation seemed to be at an end though, so she turned back to her next clue. The file contained a note written in a strange, numerical code and a series of newspaper headlines glued to a piece of paper. There was a handwritten note at the top of the coded message: ↓ _M08→ Solve the code._

The numbers were printed, bold and clear, on the remaining paper. She stared at it, brow furrowed, trying to work out what he meant. 15030414 0726222514 201016 1510 150326 09261915 24071626/ 150326 13261415 201016 08161415 18101306 101615 011013 2010161314260701/ 01040925 0820 2403040725 0310 1025 03100826 01131008 150326 2213150424072614 220925 2403262406 1609252613 150326 022213252609 14032625/ 150326 0310161426 0414 172224220915/

She tried to remember what her uncle taught her about codes. "E is the most frequently used letter in the English language." What number appeared most often? She scanned it quickly. Did the numbers go in pairs ' _M08'_ implied, yes. 26 then. She matched it up. This would take a while.

Sherlock, meanwhile, was on the phone to Mycroft yet again. He had persuaded Sherlock to take the case regarding Alex's disappearance and was now attempting to get his cooperation on several other issues. "You know I don't work with Interpol, Mycroft," he moaned. "No, I don't care if they're chasing a suspected terrorist." Mycroft gave a long-suffering sigh down the phone. Sherlock knew he was only giving them so much information because he knew the line was secure. "They were quite insistent on the matter. Jones is advising we collaborate. We may have need of them, brother mine." He snorted at the hated pet name, drumming his fingers on the table as he considered the request. "They will only get in the way." Another sigh, this one whistling slightly through his lips; migraine. Working in government must be so stressful for someone of his magnificent intellect, all those idiotic minions running around. "We don't have time for this. See if you can get that SAS unit of yours to help out. At least they'll keep civilians out of the line of fire, if it comes to it." The prolonged tone was the only sign Mycroft had hung up.

John met with William and his unit on a Monday afternoon. Sherlock came with him as part of a preliminary investigation. The park was nearly empty but for a couple of brave joggers and a young couple bundled up tightly against the cold. They congregated near the pond, John with his hands buried in his pockets, Sherlock pacing, K-unit warily vigilant. William asked John how he was. John was fine, thanks for asking. The small talk was intensely awkward. Eagle, ever excitable, asked if Sherlock had any new cases. "Yeah, actually. Mycroft got a call from, you know, _the Bank_." He lowered his voice at the end and K-unit winced. "They want him to look for Alex. Sherlock agreed." They nodded but then Wolf spoke up from the back of the group where he had been standing, straight spined. "We were going to ask about him, actually. No one knows what happened, then?" John shook his head in response and turned to Sherlock, who had yet to say a word. "Have you had any luck yet?" Sherlock looked at him in surprise, head tilted to one side. "I do not rely on luck, John," he sneered and tossed his head back. "We need to first return to the last place we know for certain he was at - that's Baker Street - then follow the trail from there. His employers rely too much on electronics so we're going to do it the proper way. Ask your friends if they know where any of his safe houses are; I'll check the homeless network." They had a plan.

 **Author's Note:**

You get another slightly early update today because my exams are over (yay!)

No one got the reference in the chapter title for chapter 2 (we dream in the dark) which is a bit of a surprise given how popular the musical is. It was from Hamilton, specifically 'The Room Where It Happens'. ("We dream of a brand new start. But we dream in the dark for the most part.")

This time, the quote is from a TV show so some people may know it. If you do, leave your guess in your review

I'm also curious to see if anyone can crack the code. I've given you one letter and if you have any experience with ciphers it shouldn't be too hard to figure out. If you read a lot it should be even easier because I got the code from a book ('The Blackthorn Key').

I'm trying to keep a few chapters ahead so chapter 6 is currently in the works.

Let me know what you thought of this chapter by leaving a review.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4- Crashing the Mode

 **Text from: John**

 _Rosie has her christmas play on thursday and I got you a ticket. Meet at 4pm outside the school?_

There were footsteps coming down the stairs. Alex found that he was unafraid. London's criminal underbelly were tame in comparison to the horrors of Scorpia. He could hear the rough, east London snarl through the tangled blur of guttural sounds. "Do you reckon he's takin' the piss, Mike?" A few more steps. Alex wondered who they were talking about. Idly, he picked at a rough bit of skin on his knuckle that he could reach while cuffed. "Does it matter? The boss is coming for 'im today anyway and at least 'e's a bit easier than that bloody soldier last week." The pair stopped walking so he assumed they had arrived at his door. A bright torch beam swung in and passed in front of his face, causing him to make a pointless, aborted, movement to cover his eyes. The taller, more hulking of the two stomped over and heaved him to him feet, unlocking the cuffs and tying his hands behind him with heavy rope. Alex did not resist, though the ropes would be far too easy to get out of: he wanted to know who their boss was. A London gangster couldn't organise the take-down that had captured him.

The trail ran cold at the end of the street. It had been far too long since Alex had gone missing for any conclusive evidence to remain. Sherlock couldn't tell which way he went. They returned to Baker Street where Rosie was sat at the table, papers strewn around her in a halo of typed headlines and fragments of code. She looked up as they entered, then back down at the page in front of her, gnawing on the end of her pencil before scribbling down a few more letters. Mrs Hudson came in with tea as John peeled off his coat. "Any luck, boys?" John shook his head and she handed him a mug. Sherlock was looking over Rosie's shoulder as she worked. He nodded as she explained what she had so far, something about a coded message and the link between newspaper headlines. Pushing a scrap of paper away, he pulled two headlines closer and examined the photo attached to a third. "The address is in Chelsea. The articles narrow it down to one block, the photos can narrow it down to a street. Let me know when you want to leave." He straightened and stalked into the kitchen where his microscope was set up to analyse soil types. John didn't know why exactly but he did know better than to ask. Sherlock had a bank of common soil types saved on his website somewhere but how it was helpful to the case was impossible to guess. Mrs Hudson was standing in the door way, dithering, and John decided he'd better go and ask what was wrong.

Sherlock was frustrated. He tried hard to ignore the bubbling anger in his gut and the icy fear that clung to his heart that this case, his most important except perhaps for Moriarty, would be the one he failed at. Anger and fear were useless emotions: they helped no one. When his analysis of soil types yielded no results (not that he expected it to) he moved on, reluctantly, to the data Mycroft had sent him. There was a map with a crudely drawn route in red pen, a set of text messages from Alex's phone, a list of potential suspects so long Sherlock would have scoffed if he hadn't known the man, and a set of coordinates for the last place his tracker - and how Sherlock knew Alex must have hated it - had been detected. It was late in the day. John wouldn't want to be out and about at this time of night with Rosie to look after and blog posts to write. He would have to wait until tomorrow. Or he could go alone. "John. Phone." John stood with a sigh and retrieved it from his pocket as he read the text messages Alex had sent the Bank. _Identity compromised. Coming into headquarters._ That was sent just after he left Baker Street. _Spotted two 'friends' with gifts. May be late._ He was tailed by armed men. Evidently, he was worried about hackers, adapting his language to sound normal. _Going 2 ground dont contact again._ One last quick-fire message before his disappearance to allay any worry. That was the only reason it had taken MI6 so long to get in contact. Opening Google Maps, he searched for the coordinates: A cafe near the tube station in Pimlico. He had been so close.

Rosie had the laptop taken away at about 7pm when her dad realised they had yet to have dinner, she hadn't had a bath and school started again the next day. She didn't think school was important, if she was honest. She supposed her uncle Sherlock was rubbing off on her more than her dad wanted him to. She ate her dinner in thoughtful silence. Chelsea. She had never been to Chelsea, had never seen a reason too, but now she wished she had. Her bath took too long and by the time she got out, her dad was on the laptop typing in his awkward bird-like way. Stifling a sigh, she scanned the bookshelf looking for a map. It wasn't Google Earth, but it would serve its purpose. Her notes were still spread across the table so she started to find connecting pieces of information, one liners and inconsequential phrases that made up a tangled spider's web of interconnecting clues around a locus point that was the house's location. First she discovered the area of Chelsea: a quadrant in the east. Then she used a map to find houses with garden space and narrowed it down to a handful of streets. She could search them, but not now. Uncle Sherlock had offered assistance but he was muttering away to himself as he worked on his own case. She stared at the map, found Baker Street and traced a path to the Chelsea streets she had chosen. It was only a short distance: a walk through Hyde Park and across a few roads. She could walk it easily. She was a big girl now.

 **Author's Note:**

So, there we have it. The plot is progressing (slowly) and Rosie is solving clues. I posted on time (!) and still have a few chapters in reserve so all good. I will admit to becoming obsessed with Trollhunters though, oops. On that note, this week's chapter title is also from a kids animated TV show and it's receiving a lot of publicity because season 3 comes out this year! Take a guess and let me know what you think in your reviews.

Well done to Dobby and Padfoot and doryshotgun2 who guessed last chapter's reference. For everyone at home who didn't leave a review: it was from Supernatural.

I live off of your reviews so let me know what you think.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5- Alone Protects Me

 **Text from: John**

 _I know you like being mysterious but this is crazy. Let us know you're ok_

The morning dawned bright and warm for winter in London. Dressed in her school uniform and a thick coat, Rosie was bundled out the door by John and Sherlock was left alone. Daylight was always better for vital investigative work such as this. He tied his scarf and pulled up the collar of his coat to block out the heavy stares of curious commuters or passers by. He knew they wondered what he was up to and didn't much care for their inane questions. The taxi appeared the minute he stepped out and he told the driver to take him to Pimlico station. Traffic clogged the roads but Sherlock was patient. He texted Mycroft for access to CCTV footage from the hour before and after the coordinates were transmitted. Mycroft wouldn't text back, he knew. Mycroft never texted if he could talk. They were nearing the station and the taxi pulled into the waiting zone. Sherlock stepped out and strode towards the station, doubling back when he knew the cabbie was gone. He looked around. A camera above the entrance to the station, another on a jewellery shop across the road. It wasn't a particularly built up area, just lots of cars and people. He wasn't in the right place. Walking further down the adjacent road, he spotted more cameras, not as frequently as in the tourist traps and shopping districts but obvious all the same. He found the cafe and looked around again. The thick trees made any view from a camera difficult to decipher and the cars lining the street made it easy for someone to get him in a car without anybody being any the wiser. Alex was, despite everything, a curious person by nature. Sherlock wouldn't put it past him to follow someone into trouble because they looked suspicious. But he knew he was being tailed, knew he was in danger, and in the end he was always cautious. Crossing the road to one of the houses, he ruffled his hair and turned down his collar, plastering a desperate look on his face. Then he knocked on the door.

Rosie lasted until breaktime before she became too impatient to wait any longer. Scrambling over the back gate into the garden behind, she found the crumpled street map she had hidden in her coat pocket that morning, her route coloured in red. Her new shoes pinched her feet but she trudged onwards, occasionally consulting the map for guidance. It was further than she had thought. By the time she reached the first street she had picked out, it was lunchtime and she sat on a wall to eat her sandwiches. The street was quiet, a kind of inner city suburbia that only London had. She began a slow walk down the empty street, studying the houses and their gardens, looking for one that was uninhabited. She found none. It was time for the second.

Readjusting the strap of her bag, she crossed the road and made her way to her next destination. The second spot on her list held more promise anyway. Only a short walk from the local school and not too far from the hospital either, it was, if possible, even quieter. There was an air of apprehension, as if something was about to happen and the street itself was holding its breath in anticipation. She began to creep almost subconsciously, rolling forward from her toe to her heel just like her uncle Alex taught her. She was as silent as the street she walked on. The houses loomed above her like stern, flinty schoolmasters from classic stories. Each garden was a perfectly groomed and pruned mask for the people hidden behind walls of impenetrable stone. There was one house, at the end of the street, that was different. It's front lawn was a raging jungle broken up by bare and scorched earth and its walls were colder than all others, though they had seemed frigid at the time. It had a uninhabited, forgotten look. Or perhaps it was simply avoided, shunned by the quiet and ordinary residents who wanted nothing to do with the madness that pervaded the house at the end of the lane. The wooden gate swung open at her touch and she stepped onto toughened grass with a cautious glance over her shoulder. She could see no one so she made her way to the door.

John got the phone call while he was on his lunch break. The confused receptionist brought the office phone through with a perplexed "it's for you" and his heart sank when he heard the school admin office on the other end. "Is this Doctor Watson?" He answered with an affirmative and wondered what Rosie could possibly have done to warrant a phone call home. "Were you aware that Rosamund has left the premises? She has not been registered as present this afternoon." A tide of panic was rising in his chest that could only be caused by a situation like this. First Alex, now Rosie… what was going on? "Dr Watson, I'm sorry but I have to ask. Have there been any problems at home recently that we should be concerned about? Rosamund's teacher reported earlier that she seemed distracted and out of character." He considered the question carefully before answering. "Our neighbour, Alex, he's more like her uncle really, left very suddenly for a work trip just before Christmas and hasn't come back yet. It was rather unexpected and they're very close. She seemed upset at the time but I thought she'd gotten over it." The woman made a noise of agreement and he wondered if she had been listening at all. "Let me ring home and I'll see if Sherlock picked her up for some reason." He hung up before he received a response. Sherlock didn't answer the phone, as usual. He texted him next: a flurry of frantic messages to convey his urgency. Sherlock was more likely to respond if you nagged him. There was no response and then his lunch break was over.

Sherlock was interrogating the old woman whose house he had approached. Interrogating may have been the wrong word for his probing but he liked the sound of it more than any other synonymous term. As soon as he saw the owner coming to the door he put on his best woebegone, lost dog look (he was very good at it) and simply blathered on about looking for his missing brother. His act was so convincing she brought him inside for a cup of tea. "What can I do for you, young man?" she asked in a tremulous voice. Sherlock's gaze travelled up from her slipper clad feet to her trembling hands and deduced all he needed. He allowed his voice to hitch slightly, as if emotional, as he replied. "I'm looking for my little brother. He's a little shorter than me, blonde hair, in his late twenties? He lives a few streets away so I thought someone must've seen him." She was gazing at him with such a sickeningly sympathetic face he almost left there and then. _For Alex_ he reminded himself. "Here! I've… I've got a picture." He pretended to fumble for his phone and brought up the photo Mrs Hudson had taken all those years ago. "It's a few years old now but that's him with my friend's baby daughter." She cooed over the picture then turned to him, suddenly all shrewd and birdlike and Sherlock wondered briefly if he'd made a mistake. "He doesn't look much like you, does he? Got a different father?" He relaxed somewhat. It was just a little old lady with backwards views, nothing to worry about.

She passed the phone back to him and he clasped her wrinkled hands in his. "Please, ma'am, he's my little brother. The police think he's been missing about a month but all I know is he didn't come home for Christmas. I have to find him." She removed her hands from his grasp and patted his knee gently. He hated her condescension but he needed her to find out what happened. He didn't push her to answer. Often people would talk, even if they hadn't planned to, just to fill the silence so he kept on the worried brother persona and hoped that she would crack. His phone began to vibrate in his pocket but he ignored it. "I saw a young man a bit like him a while ago. Oh, it must have been at least a month before Christmas. I was just pruning back the roses; I know it's a bit early for it but I do like to get it done. He popped into the cafe across the road. He looked a bit edgy though, now that I think about it. He kept looking in windows and over his shoulder, like he was being watched. Then there were those other men, big ones, wouldn't have wanted to cross them, and he started walking a bit faster, not that he was walking slowly to begin with, and I think he took his phone out but I went inside after that. Sorry I can't be of more help, dear." He sighed and stared at his knees as if deep in thought. Then he asked his final question: "The men you saw, did they look threatening? Could they have hurt him?" She stared at the ceiling for a few moments and he could almost see the cogs turning in her brain. "Yes," she replied. "They could have but I don't know if they did. That's for the police to find out I suppose." She shuddered with suppressed horror and took his cup although it was still nearly full.

Rosie got to the door before she realised that she had no key. Stupidly she jiggled the handle up and down, as if that would open it. Then she tried to use her brain. Alex would have left the key somewhere for her to find but had he said where in his note? She didn't think so. Her first thought was to check under the doormat; that was where her dad always left it. But Alex was, usually, very cautious. He wouldn't be so obvious. She looked at the line of flower pots beside the door, overflowing with tufty grass. Flipping each over revealed exactly… nothing. Where could he have put it? _The one place everyone forgets to look is up._ She thought the voice of her internal monologue sounded like her uncle but she couldn't be sure, though it sounded much like something he would say. She scrambled, toes scuffing uselessly against stone, to get up to the roof of the porch. Right there! A loose tile caught her eye and she lifted it to reveal a shiny brass key. She slid down and began to insert it in the door. A hand landed on her shoulder. She spun around. There was a short but fierce looking woman glaring at her. She was completely dressed in black with dark hair pulled back severely from her face and a bulge in her pocket that looked suspiciously like a gun. "You can't be here." Then she began speaking to no one, though she must have had an earpiece of some sort. "Yeah. Yeah, it's just a kid snooping. No. She's found a key to the house. What? Why? Fine. Bravo out." She stared imperiously down at Rosie before speaking. "You have to come with me."

 **Author's Note:**

Another chapter for you! I've finished writing chapter 7 so I'm still ahead but the plot is fighting with me and doesn't want to progress how I want it to which may make the next bit difficult to write. No one knew what chapter 4's reference was (crashing the mode). It's a bit of an obscure reference to Young Justice which I recommend to anyone looking for a cheesy but awesome cartoon to watch on a rainy day. Everyone should get this one though!

In other news, I did an interview for Asexual Artists on tumblr if you wanted to check it out. I'm trying to promote this story and also gain some recognition for if I ever finish my novel (that's a big 'if'). If you're interested, my username is 'stormleviosa'.

Hope you enjoy the chapter. Make sure to leave a review below to let me know your thoughts.


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6- Shadowland

 **Text from: John**

 _Mycroft has Sherlock on the case and he's not going to be happy when he finds you_

John was panicking. Sherlock wasn't responding and Rosie had disappeared and he still had five patients to see before he could leave. Every minute seemed an hour to him but he struggled on through anyway. The journey home took far too long and when he finally got to Baker Street he almost forgot to pay the cabbie before he raced up the steps. Sherlock was, predictably, lounging on the couch looking unconcerned. "Why the bloody hell didn't you reply to my messages?" Sherlock glanced upwards at him then pulled out his phone to check. John was furious. Sherlock hadn't even seen his texts. "Oh. Rosie's not here. I imagine she went to find Alex's old place." Dumbfounded, John stood and stared for a moment. Then he put his coat back on and left.

The taxi was still waiting and John rattled off Alex's old address without thinking about how he still knew it. The rush hour traffic was terrible and although John was usually patient but in this situation there was no way any parent could control their anxiety. The miles crawled by with an aching slowness that he could barely stand, Hyde Park passing by and being replaced by terraced houses in endless uniform rows. Finally, they arrived and John was racing towards the house where he knew Alex had lived, felt his mouth open in a call for Rosie. And realised before he reached it that she wasn't there.

Rosie didn't like the lady from her uncle's house. She had an icy demeanor that reminded her of uncle Mycroft. Her car, while very expensive, still smelled new and the seats were far too firm. Silence pervaded. She didn't know where she was going, only that she had ignored everything her dad taught her and got in a car with a stranger. They crossed the river and parked under ground in an empty car park. "Out. Follow me." She didn't go up to street level but instead lead her through a door into a sterile corridor. There was a lift at the end and she pressed the button for the ground floor with more force than was necessary. Rosie looked her up and down, focused on her hands with their calluses consistent with shooters, her sturdy boots and flexible clothing. She was prepared for anything. There was something in her stance that reminded Rosie of her uncle Alex, a kind of wary vigilance that bordered on paranoia. They exited the lift into a wide entrance hall and through the glass doors she could see the cars crawling past on their way through Vauxhall. She contemplated running but there were two very heavily armed security guards at the doors and it would be hard to do without causing a commotion. She was taken to the front desk where a young and bored secretary sat twirling her hair around her finger. "Account number B157468392. I have a meeting scheduled with Mrs Jones. We spoke on the phone." The secretary nodded blandly and tapped a few keys on her keyboard at random. "Head right on up. You're on floor twelve today." The agent turned in her heel and dragged Rosie back to the lift.

Sherlock was watching CCTV footage with a driven focus that told of attempting distraction. He watched as a steady stream of people, commuters and families alike, entered and exited with their prize. No Alex. Time passed. He sped up the recording and tried to ignore John pacing a hole in the floor behind him. Mycroft was evidently not picking up the phone. "Don't worry, John. She'll show up." When had Mrs Hudson shown up? He hadn't heard her come in but from the faint sound of a tray being put down he could tell she had brought up tea. "She's my _daughter,_ Mrs Hudson! Of course I'm worried." John was shouting now. Mrs Hudson was trying to placate him but he was just pacing again, stressed and angry with himself. He looked back at the screen and realised the video had moved on without him so he rewound it with a frustrated sigh. There he was. Jacket zipped up tight against the cold and his chin tucked down to avoid the wind, he hurried down the road. Every so often he appeared to glance sideways into car windows but never over his shoulder. Even Sherlock knew that if you knew you were being tailed you never showed it so obviously. As he passed the camera by the cafe, he looked directly up at it and Sherlock pushed down a surge of alarm. If he was so blatantly trying to be seen it must be serious. He entered the cafe and left the view of the camera for the time being. About twenty minutes later, he left, looked both ways, and crossed the street. Less than thirty seconds later, three men crossed in front of the camera with hulking muscles and tight leather jackets. Sherlock switched camera but realised quickly that it didn't have the view he wanted. He'd lost them. Again.

John noticed Sherlock's agitation and, finally giving up on Mycroft, approached to help. "The camera angle is all wrong. I can't see them." He switched camera and showed John the men he thought were following Alex before his disappearance. "Look at them. Brutes. It certainly wasn't their plan but I don't doubt they have criminal records. Phone." He held out a hand and John passed it over without complaint. He presumably texted Lestrade because minutes later a file had been emailed across and Sherlock was browsing the records of men with their description. "See here? Michael Baker. Born in London with a history of violent assault, armed robbery, muggings, all connected to gangs. Went off the grid about a month ago- the police had been keeping tabs on him." John nodded slowly and watched as Sherlock typed in further search criteria, continued scrolling. "And here? Robert Mortimer. Mid-forties and married but with a stream of abuse accusations. These are dangerous men, John." John wasn't overly concerned about danger, never had been really, but he understood what Sherlock didn't. "If these men weren't working alone, they were working for someone - probably someone who hates the British government. We're hunting terrorists, now." Sherlock stared at him as if shocked by his insight. Sherlock was always shocked by his insight. But John _knew_ about this kind of thing, knew about hunting terrorists. It had been awhile since his army days, but it wasn't something you forget. Maybe Sherlock would actually let him help this time.

 **Author's Note:**

This one comes early because it's my mum's birthday tomorrow so I won't be able to post.

Nobody appears to have guessed the last chapter (is anyone even attempting to guess the chapter titles?) but it was a Sherlock reference.

This week's reference is from the longest running West End musical and third longest running Broadway production (I saw it in London for my birthday last year and it's great). It's also based on a Disney film by the same name.

I love your comments so much! Thank you! When I get a notification I get all excited and then I read your comments and I can barely contain my joy (I actually squealed once and got some very odd looks). Every little helps so thanks.

Hope you enjoy the update.


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7- The Kindest Word For Stupidity

 **Text from: John**

 _You've put Rosie in danger you bloody idiot_

Mrs Jones was a dull looking woman, Rosie decided. She was just on the overweight side of healthy and had a pallid, rough-cut face with a square jaw and beady eyes. Her black hair hung limply around her face in a bob that didn't suit her, despite her sharp business suit. Rosie immediately disliked her. There was something sly and fox-like in her face that contrasted with the bulkiness of her frame and terrible choice in fashion. She scanned her over briefly, eyes flickering over her hands and her desk layout and the hem of her clothes. She was right handed, could probably handle a weapon, had been abroad relatively recently. Something flickered in her face, sympathy perhaps, and Rosie narrowed her eyes suspiciously. "Rosamund Mary Watson." Rosie nodded. "You know Mr Rider?" Rosie stayed silent. "He works for us. You can speak freely here." Her eyes flickered to glance at the woman still standing at ease by the door. Mrs Jones waved her out of the office and she left with ill-grace. "Uncle Alex told me to go there," she blurted out before snapping her mouth closed. A tiny smile appeared on Mrs Jones' face. "Did he, now? And I suppose 'Uncle Alex' told you all about what we do here at the Royal and General Bank."

Rosie was still wary but her smile did not appear malicious, rather it seemed mischievous, as if she revelled in the intellectual sparring. "I only needed to get into his shed," she conceded reluctantly. Mrs Jones chuckled at her which only made her more disgruntled and she sniffed in haughty derision. "So he left you clues, now? How fun!" Rosie was reminded of the patronising, over enthusiastic school teachers she had put up with this year, the ones who didn't realise she was a genius. So, she plastered a vacant smile on her face. "Yes. It's like a scavenger hunt. I already know he lived in Chelsea as a child, he speaks seven languages fluently, he had an eventful childhood, he has a scar just here-" she pointed at a spot on her chest and then her shoulder, "that looks like a bullet wound: it has the same pattern as the entry and exit wounds of a .50 calibre Russian sniper rifle so his job must be very dangerous." She blinked up at her and knew that, if she could see her face, she had the most innocent of expressions. Mrs Jones no longer looked pleased, there were lines of masked apprehension lingering around her mouth and carved into her forehead. She leant forward and, with a sly smirk, revealed what she had deduced. "I know you're not really a bank."

John saw that Rosie wasn't at Alex's Chelsea house and immediately assumed the worst: she had been kidnapped, she had been murdered and thrown in the river, she was lying helpless in an alley. Sherlock examined the latch on the gate and looked at the barely visible path to the front door. "She was here. She left with another woman before going in." John stopped his frantic pacing and glanced at him, confused. "But why? This was where she needed to be, why leave?" Sherlock opened the gate and stepped into the front garden, sweeping an indescribable look over the damaged grass. "The front door is locked." John rolled his eyes and followed Sherlock to the door. "Of course it is, idiot. Alex wouldn't just leave the door hanging open." Turning abruptly, Sherlock scanned the street. His quick and assessing eyes took in the cars parked on the street, the young mother wheeling a pram down the path in a tailored pea coat buttoned up to her throat, the perfectly manicured lawns. There was a camera attached to the street light on the other side of the road. There was a gap in the cars parked on the roadside. "It was an Agent. Probably stationed to watch the house for unusual activity on their downtime or while suspended from active duty. They took her to the Bank." He continued to mutter to himself but John ignored him. Rosie was out there somewhere and he needed to find her.

Sherlock watched as John phoned Mycroft for what seemed like the hundredth time. He understood, in a detached kind of way, that he was worried and if it weren't for his ability to ignore his emotions he thought he would be too. Logically, he knew Rosie was a smart girl - far smarter than John gave her credit for - and the Bank was perhaps the most secure organisation in the country. If anyone could keep her safe it was them. He tried not to remember that they were the ones who employed Alex as a vulnerable and grieving fifteen year old and continued to blackmail him until he almost died and he'd lost the rest of his family too. "He won't pick up, John. We're just going to have to go ourselves." John slipped his phone away with a concerned but resigned frown and Sherlock prepared to leave. The sharp ringing of his phone made him jump. K-unit had texted him with a list of addresses, all in London but scattered in a random pattern with little rhyme or reason to their placement. Two minutes later a second text came through ' _Alex has houses independent of the Bank's but these are the ones we've found on their database.'_ Useless information now but it reminded him of their search, their true mission. He turned to John, still waiting to find his daughter. "You go on to the Bank. I've got something to do." John looked confused but nodded. Sherlock didn't regret keeping his friend out of the investigation, not really. He had his family to look out for, and besides, John was brave - excessively so - and that was, as Mycroft had so often said, by far the kindest word for stupidity. He would be a hindrance rather than a help in this situation, distracting and too eager to start a fight with Alex's captors. K-unit were the same: tensions ran high among them and their familial camaraderie would no doubt lead to righteous outrage and vengeful fury. He was the only one he trusted to keep a cool head. He would continue the search alone.

Alex didn't know where he was but he knew that he was moving. The rolling plunging motion told him he was at sea. It was still blacker than tar and there was a thickness to the air that made it all the more impenetrable. He was no longer blindfolded but it would have made no difference in any case. He could not move. It didn't scare him as such but his apparent paralysis was concerning. He couldn't even wiggle his toes. The air was heavy and stifling yet bitterly cold with the innate chill that personified January in England. His breath seemed tight in his chest. It was this, perhaps, that sent him spiralling into internal panic. Calm down. He had to calm down. How much air did he have? The walls were closing in. He needed to move. Wiggle your toes, Alex. No. Can't. Get control of yourself. Breathe. He needed to breathe. _One, two, three, four, five. Breathe in. Six, seven, eight, nine, ten. Breathe out._ In and out. Measured, controlled breaths, shallow to conserve air. Think yourself away. Had Rosie solved any clues yet? He wondered how close she was to the truth, if she knew about the Bank yet. Rosie was smart, smarter than Alex, smart enough to keep out of any funny business they would inevitably try to pull when they realised how large the untapped reservoir of intelligence and potential. It was the only reason he had left the clues. He wanted to see them so badly. He ached with the suppressed _need_ to see them again, could feel the threads tying him to them pulling taught as he was dragged further into the darkness cast by MI6's shadow.

 **Author's Note:**

I missed an update, I'm so sorry! In all honesty, I actually don't know what happened because I should have posted it earlier in the day when I posted 'Phenomenal Woman' but I thought I'd have time later. Then I didn't because school. I intended to, I swear, but it just didn't happen. I can't swear it'll never happen again but I promise to try to avoid it at all costs.

Well done to Dobby and Padfoot, and xDarklightx who correctly guessed the last chapter reference. It was from The Lion King (the musical). This one should be really easy for you to guess if you've watched the show properly.

Aside from that, I'm actually really uncertain about this chapter, particularly the end. Let my know what you think (I know you wanted to see Rosie meet Mrs Jones).


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter 8- Stubbornness Issues

 **Text from: John**

 _Does the Bank still employ kids?_

Sherlock was being annoyingly cryptic. He had figured something out and now he wasn't talking to John at all. He tried not to be alarmed. Often when they were on a case, Sherlock wouldn't speak to him for days, sequestering himself in his room until he got the answer, so while his silence was frustrating it wasn't a cause for concern. John spoke to K-unit that afternoon but they were none the wiser but they stayed for a cup of tea and a chat. William in particular was furious about Rosie's disappearance: the abduction of a child, even one of Rosie's age, was far too reminiscent of Alex's induction into the life of a spy for their comfort. They knew that there was no way Rosie could possibly be coerced into working for them or be held against her will without someone powerful coming down on them hard. The Bank would not be able to withstand the fallout if anything happened to her. It comforted John to know that there was someone on their side. Mycroft finally rang back in the early evening and spoke with a disgruntled tone as John voiced his concerns. "Yes, John, I heard all this from my dearest brother. I've been in contact with Mrs Jones and she assures me Rosamund is perfectly safe. She will be returned to you in due course." John wasn't sure how he felt about that and told Mycroft so. A sigh down the telephone. John could almost imagine him rolling his eyes in exasperation. "I have no power over Mrs Jones but I will relay your concerns to her. Be patient, Doctor Watson." There was a stubborn beep as the elder Holmes hung up the phone.

Rosie wanted to go home. She had been stuck at 'the Bank' for hours now (how stupid she felt for not realising the implied capitalisation before) and the satisfaction that followed her brash statement had long since worn off. When would this be over? She had stopped listening after the first five minutes of the debriefing and was now watching the London traffic through the misted window. It was getting dark. Shifting nervously, she wondered if her dad had noticed she wasn't home yet. He was supposed to pick her up so she doubted he didn't know she was missing. "Agent Bravo will return tomorrow at 08:30 to assist you in your search and any information you uncover must be relayed to Mrs Jones immediately. Agent Bravo will escort you home." She sighed with relief. It was finally over; although she was not looking forward to more time with Bravo. They took a cab in silence. Bravo only spoke when she told the cabbie where to go and when to stop. She was let out at the top of Baker Street and walked the rest of the way. It felt inexplicably like the walk of shame. Dithering on the top step, she knocked on the door and stumbled backwards as Mrs Hudson barreled forward to wrap her in a hug. Mrs Hudson gave the best hugs. "Where have you been? You've driven your father mad with worry!" She drew back and shook her head in disapproval. "Come in out of the cold, you silly girl. Let's get you something to eat."

Alex had been moved again. No longer was he in the hold of a ship, now he was in another basement, he thought. He was still blindfolded but he wasn't tied up anymore which would have been a mistake if he wasn't so curious. He had been allowed a little water and a bite to eat. He was feeling more hopeful than he had for a while. There was a commotion upstairs, raised voices and clumping footsteps. Something had spooked them. Raised voices. "He's not restrained."

"Well why not, you idiot? He's Alex Rider: if he's not restrained we'll lose him. Tie him up. Then, I want to see him."

Hurried footsteps on the stairs. Thug number one, who Alex had dubbed 'Big Mac', wrenched his arms behind his back and tied them tightly together. There was a tapping of footsteps. Not the heavy, galumphing beats of the thugs, but a lighter and sharper sound made by dress shoes. This was the boss. A thrill of excitement and fear ran down his spine and he shivered. The man was at the door. The silhouette of his suit and well groomed hair stretched across the stone floor but he couldn't quite make out who it was. That grey suit was familiar. The man turned to face him and he couldn't quite stifle his surprise. "Hello, Alex. It's been too long since I had you so firmly under my thumb. You were gone a long time. Things changed. Of course, it was all your fault."

"Glad I could be of service." He would have bowed if he hadn't been restrained.

"Oh how I've missed this, the banter. Don't worry, I don't blame you, not really. You weren't even here, off in America living the high life," Alex snorted. 'Living the high life,' sure. "You were perfect, Alex, talented and disciplined and so young. There was so much potential. But Mrs Jones said 'no' and what she says goes apparently. She took my command out from under me, all because of you. But I know you, you see. I know what you've done. So I want you to do a little job for me, little spy. It shouldn't be too hard, you've done it before. Infiltrate MI6. Kill Mrs Jones." Alex wasn't sure what to say and opted instead to raise an eyebrow, an action he thought spoke louder than words. "Oh, I've gone about this all wrong, haven't I, Alex? You want to know _why_ and _how_ and all the details. Well, I'll tell you…"

"Oh no. You're one of _those guys_ ," Alex cut in, finding his voice. Blunt, and of course that was who it was in the drab grey suit, looked momentarily taken aback so he continued. "You're going to monologue about how you're going to 'change the world' and how 'it's a new dawn for humanity' or else you're going to blow us all to kingdom come but 'it's for the greater good' so it's all good. At which point I'll probably get away and you'll send those thugs of yours after me so I inevitably get injured but I'll walk away with a fiery explosion in the background and live to fight another day. It's all very cliché." Blunt stared.

"Are you finished?" Alex nodded. "You're not wrong about the monologuing so I will keep it brief. First. I will retake my rightful position at the head of MI6. Then, we will take over the security council and the British Government. That's where it gets really interesting. We take the army out of the Middle East and everywhere else they've been sent. We stop letting people in or out and reclaim governance of our country. We have caused enough damage abroad already and it is only harming our own society. This is what the people want, Alex. It's already begun. You are only delaying the inevitable if you resist." The silence was thick and cloying with tension and the ache of long withheld information finally brought to light. Alex slumped in his bindings and considered his words. "I will leave you to think about it before we start breaking you bit by bit."

Sherlock was on his way to Dover. He was acting on a hunch which he hated but it was a logical hunch: if they were going to take Alex anywhere it would be out of the country. Hence his trip to Dover. John was at home with Rosie (he had heard the door, heard Mrs Hudson's exclamation) and he knew he wouldn't follow. He was so close now. Just a day or so and Alex could be safely back at Baker Street, or as safe as Alex could ever be. Mycroft's Land Rover was useful for times like this. The dull concrete buildings squatted in clusters surrounded by endless tarmac car parks and he pulled up in front of the office without taking a ticket. The office worker inside was a fidgety, ferrety little man who appeared more afraid of the the outside than Sherlock himself. Straightening his scarf, Sherlock strode towards him. "I need to see your sales records for the past month." The man looked shocked but stuttered out a reply - something about the absurdity of his endeavor and "there are hundreds of ticket sales everyday." Sherlock didn't really care. "Oh, move over." He let out a squawk of protest but Sherlock ignored it. He scrolled through ticket orders, discarding those for future dates, looking for the names of the two men he had found. His eyes scanned the text so fast it blurred as he scrolled but he found it eventually: a ticket for one Robert Mortimer from Dover to Dunkirk at 10:00am less than a week ago. He had found him.

It took John at least three hours to stop smothering Rosie enough to notice that Sherlock was gone and by that time it was far too late to stop him. So, after putting Rosie to bed, not without severe admonishment, he rang William. He answered almost immediately. John jumped into his explanation. "Sherlock must have found him. He's gone and he didn't mention where to but he was talking about these gangsters earlier so I think he may have gone after them. I've been a bit preoccupied, what with Rosie disappearing this morning so he probably slipped past in the last few hours. He can't have gone far but I thought I'd warn you we're going to be moving quickly tomorrow morning." He could hear William chuckling down the phone, the rest of K-unit in the background. There was silence for a minute before he responded. "Sure, John. We'll be there tomorrow bright and early." He sounded deeply amused and John tried not to be offended by his flippant tone, knowing he was probably on a night out and enjoying himself. John trudged up to bed, taking one last look at the empty space by the window that was reserved for Sherlock's elegant profile.

 **Author's Note:**

I'm on time this week!

This week has been really hectic because we've been booking our holiday and I've been working extra shifts (running on five and a half hours sleep now, yay!) I'm actually running out of buffer chapters now but the plot is really moving along and I will make a rough estimate at 13 chapters for the finished story.

This chapter's reference is one you will know if you watch animated films. (Think vikings, made up islands and a certain mythological creature). Let me know what you think.

I'm going to respond to some reviews now so if that doesn't interest you, feel free to skip straight to the bottom where that little box is waiting for you to leave a review of you own.

Firstly, well done to Dobby and Padfoot who correctly guessed the chapter reference (from Sherlock).

Sylphrena33 - Thanks for your enthusiasm. I too love the idea of Rosie being able to deduce; I think it'd be impossible for her to grow up in 221B (as she canonically will) and not pick at least something up.

Dobby and Padfoot - Well done on your chapter title guess (you're the only person who did but that doesn't matter). I read your review and nearly had a heart attack! You were far too close to the truth. I had already written this chapter when I saw your review though so it's all good. Hoped you enjoyed the plot twist you _almost_ predicted.


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter 9- Life is Pain

 **Text from: John**

 _Rosie's doing a great job with your clues_

John met K-unit at the corner of Baker Street at a time when most sane people would be dead to the world and huddled under blankets. Each was wearing a lumpy winter jacket which was only partially to shield against the cold. Each kept a gun on their person in varying areas depending on their role. John's was in his pocket, as usual. Wolf and Hawk kept theirs in the waist of their trousers, within easy reach but not conspicuous. Snake left his in a thigh holster where it was out of the way when he was using his hands. Eagle, a sniper, had a much larger rifle and so kept it in various pieces scattered across his body, mainly across his back and shoulder. They went to the tube station, blending in among early commuters and late-night partygoers. On a train packed with people they discussed a plan: Sherlock had left for who knows where so they would track down Mycroft for information, then they'd go to wherever Sherlock was and insert themselves into his plan, then they'd rescue Alex and be home in time for tea. They all knew it wouldn't be that simple. John texted Mycroft, a word of warning before five armed and angry men trooped into his office, and fired a second off to Sherlock. He trusted Mrs Hudson to look after Rosie for the rest of the day, having phoned the school office early that morning to inform them of her absence. The Victorian town house that came into view after they left the tube station was imposing and so incredibly _Mycroft_ that John had to hold back a chuckle. They didn't knock.

Bravo showed up not long after Rosie's dad left. She seemed just as aloof as before, with a permanent frown on her stern face. Rosie hadn't opened the door - in fact, she remembered her dad locking it behind him. "Come with me," she ordered and Rosie followed. With the early morning traffic, it took an hour to get from home to her uncle's house and in that time Bravo said about ten words to her. "Seat belt on," "Sign this," (about the Official Secrets Act she passed back to Rosie) and, when prompted, "I don't care what's there." She seemed uncomfortable and restless, tapping her fingers on the wheel and twitching her head to stare at Rosie in the mirror. They parked a few streets away and walked. Bravo gripped Rosie's hand in a tight and calloused grip. They would have looked like a mother and daughter if not for their vastly different appearances. Then they were at her uncle's house and Bravo had the key that Rosie had been missing but they didn't really need to get into the house anyway. Bravo let Rosie go out to the shed alone. There was a strange expression on her face: a mixture of loss, distaste and something affectionate. Rosie couldn't quite identify it but she knew Bravo needed a moment to compose herself.

She walked into the back garden, a short strip of overgrown grass, choked with weeds. There was a path but it was obscured by wild growth and a large tree overhung most of the garden, its fallen leaves laying like a blanket across the ground. And there was the shed in the corner. Its door hung on rusted hinges and just scraped the floor as she dragged it open. There was an ugly screeching as the door protested its rude awakening. She thought that the shed must have been for show, to preserve the illusion of familiarity that they had cultivated when her uncle had lived here, for there was nothing in it. The floor was swept clean and the broom stood behind the door as a sentinel. A shelf lined one wall and it was full of bottles, some glass, some plastic, like a witch's lair. She didn't know why he had sent her here: everything was covered in a thin layer of dust that, undisturbed, made the air tremble with every breath she took. _Think, Rosie._ She looked around again, scuffed a foot in the dust to gauge thickness. It was far thinner than it should be for a building that hadn't been opened for more than six years. There was a pattern to the dust. The floor was almost clear, and the bottles, but the shelf and window sill were not and the ceiling was strewn with spider webs. She trailed a finger along the row of bottles. There were messages in them. She took down the first bottle and shook the paper out. There was a newspaper headline referencing the 'death' of John Rider in a shooting on Albert Bridge. The next had a similar heading, this time in French, about a couple dying in a plane crash in France. All the same. All deaths in mysterious circumstances. All the deaths of the Rider's. Something was going on here and she didn't like it.

Ferries were boring. Sherlock had decided this about an hour ago when the white cliffs of Dover were still visible behind him. There was nothing to do, no vaguely interesting people to talk to, and no cases to solve. A traitorous part of him wished John was with him at the rail with the light sea breeze blowing in his face. He knew he had made the right decision. It didn't help. "Caring is a disadvantage," he muttered to himself, finding comfort in the age old adage. That didn't help either. He tapped his fingers on the railing and took a breath. He loved the sea, had done since he was only a child, and often wondered - when the Work was done - if he would live by the sea in a cottage like those he had holidayed in all those years ago. He shook away the nostalgia. There was no use for feelings on a case like this. He could see the coast of France, the infamous beaches of Dunkirk, the site of the greatest evacuation of British troops in WW2. It seemed ironic that it was now where Britain's greatest asset had been taken. He twitched the collar of his coat and turned away from the rail.

Alex remained lost in thought for a long time. He couldn't say that Blunt didn't have a point (in all honesty, Blunt had often made good points for recruiting Alex when he was young and the man was manipulative enough to get what he wanted) but he had always had a distinct hatred for methods involving assassination. Whether this was down to his own, mercifully short, tenure as Scorpia's pet or because of the subsequent botched attempt on his life, he could never be certain but the fact remained that he despised assassinations. He didn't think he could talk Blunt out of that aspect if the plan. Then came the fact that he didn't _really_ believe the government was doing that badly. Of course, he didn't pay much attention to politics and even less attention to economics, but they were doing better than Trump and that was all he really asked for, even if May was a little too close to Thatcher for his taste. He couldn't partake in Blunt's plan. But how to escape? His arms were still bound behind him but he'd had enough practice to know how to get out of that. He was more worried about how many men were in the house. He had estimated about ten based on footsteps and activity in the rooms above. He would have to wait until nightfall for his escape, the silent time when everyone slept but the one man at his door. It was demeaning really: he was MI6's best agent; he deserved better than one guard. Frowning, he tested his bonds, curling up his fingers to feel the knot. There was a small gap, caused by his tensed arm muscles, that he may be able to slip out with if he dislocated his thumbs to do so. He would rather not but the knot was tight and cumbersome and time was of the essence. He heard Blunt coming back down the stairs.

 **Author's Note:**

And so ends chapter 9, with a brutal cliffhanger that you will all hate me for. The cliffhanger is not the only reason you are going to hate me. I am going on informal, unofficial, hiatus. Before you all start screaming at me, there is a genuine reason for this and I've known it was coming for a while but didn't quite want to believe it. The truth is I've run out of buffer chapters (I'm about half way through chapter 10 at the moment and it's going well but not quickly) and I have exams starting at the beginning of June. That may seem like a long way off, but these are the exams that determine whether I get to go to uni so they're really important. If any of you are taking A-Levels this summer, I wish all the best of luck... your're going to need it. So, as of this week and until the last few weeks of June, I will be taking a break. If I finish a chapter in what little free time I have, I'll post it but don't expect anything for the foreseeable future. Just remember: I am not giving up on this story! I will finish it but it won't be soon.

The chapter reference last time was from How to Train Your Dragon. Well done to the wonderful Dobby And Padfoot, and Sylphrena 33 who review every chapter and guessed correctly. This time the reference is a bit more obscure but if you like 80s films (or the internet) you may recognise it. You may also recognise the more iconic line: "you killed my father. Prepare to die."

Let me know what you think (I'll even let you scream at me if it makes you feel better) and I'll see you on the other side.


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter 10 - Shame to Die With One Bullet Left

 **Text from: John**

 _Now Sherlock's missing too_

Dunkirk was a quaint country town that most would probably consider pretty. The buildings were tall with narrow windows, terraced houses with red and brown brick and white painted sills. The streets were a mess of cobbled stones and potholed tarmac, swerving into smooth motorway as the city fell away behind him. Sherlock ignored the lowering fuel gauge: French fuel was expensive, it seemed. He had a vague idea of where he was going next. The receptionist at the front desk of the dingy hotel he stopped at was happy enough to give him details once she heard his flawless French and he offered her a pack of cigarettes. She had seen a van matching his description not four days ago, speeding off down the D52, it would be strange that she remembered it so well except that she remembered it blasting rock music at full volume as it drove past. It had annoyed her and woken one of the guests who had complained later that morning. He offered her an understanding smile and made agreeing noises. It was not until he was ready to leave that he realised John had been texting him since he left. He responded to his friend's questioning with an annoyed 'Dunkirk. Don't follow. - SH'

Rosie was surrounded by bottles and swaddled in mystery. She had learnt more about her uncle Alex in one morning than she believed she had in all the previous six years of her life put together. There were still more bottles to look in. She was fascinated by one story in particular: his father had died twice. She wasn't sure if anyone else noticed the discrepancy, it wasn't the sort of thing that was obvious unless you were looking, but it wasn't exactly hidden. It wasn't uncommon either. The death of 'Alex Rider' was reported three times aside from the destruction of his home. It was almost always accompanied by the death of another. Jack Starbright, Damian Cray, Nickolei Drevin, Anthony Howell, Julia Rothman, the list went on. The Rider's were linked only by their trail of corpses and their employer. All three had 'died' under the employ of the Royal and General Bank. It seemed she had some research to do. Gathering the remaining bottles, she returned to the remains of the Rider house.

John got Sherlock's text as they walked through the door of Mycroft's house. He snorted: of course they would follow, although it would most likely take a while. Not Anthea came down the stairs, swinging her hips and not really looking at them. Her Blackberry was still glued to her hand, just as it had been all those years ago. "Come on up," she said without glancing up from the screen. "He's been waiting for you." They trooped up the stairs past unlit lamps and spiky shadows and stopped outside a dark wooden door. Not Anthea knocked sharply and John heard Mycroft's voice from inside: "come in." His office was very plain. The walls were a pale cream with dark wood paneling, the furniture stiff and upright. It had a very Victorian air, with light drapes on the windows and a boarded up, but still ornate, fireplace. Mycroft himself sat at the desk with his fingers pressed to his temples. He saw John with K unit and gave an aggrieved sigh, lowering his hand to pick up a pen. "My brother is in France, as I'm sure you're aware. I trust you are going to retrieve him, Dr Watson?" John nodded, glancing quickly at K unit for confirmation; they grinned. "Good. He will not be happy to see you, you must understand, my brother is notoriously independent and won't appreciate your meddling. I have taken the liberty of acquiring a private jet for you. It will leave from the Heliport in Battersea in three hours and land at Calais-Dunkirk Airport which should give you enough time to find him before he gets into too much trouble." He turned over a document on his desk before staring John straight in the eye. "Bring him home, Dr Watson." John was taken aback at the emotion in the elder Holmes' face. He was visibly stressed, dark shadows under his eyes and his forehead lined with deep crevices, and John wondered how much pressure he was under to find Alex and bring him home. "Keep in touch," he said, reaching out a hand to shake and standing up with a sigh. "If anything goes wrong I will ensure and emergency evac is sent directly."

Consumed by darkness, Alex waited. Blunt was drawing out the inevitable by walking down the steps to the basement one slow, stressful step at a time. He pretended not to care. Blunt could try all the tricks in the book but Alex was too experienced, too jaded, to be intimidated. The door cracked open and the man himself sidled in. He had a vindictive grin and a confident swagger as he strode towards where Alex was tied, thugs at his side. Alex glared back. Blunt stood before him, hands clasped behind his back and spoke with a smooth, firm, confident voice. "I trust you have made a decision," he began, "this offer will only be given once so I do hope you chose wisely." Alex narrowed his eyes in defiance as Blunt leant closer. Almost nose to nose, he spoke again. "So? What is it to be?" Alex spat in his face. "I see," he sneered as he wiped the spit from his face. Something in his expression had flickered and twisted, fury was lacing his words and his grin was now a snarl. "That's how it's going to be." He beckoned to the thugs and straightened to leave. The thugs stayed, hands curled into loose fists.

It was a crude beating. They paid little attention to where their punches and kicks were aimed, instead simply providing a relentless stream of pain. When he refused to do more than glance at them in disdain, they brought out a crowbar. He had had far too much warning to respond honestly to the pain. Training kicked in and he blocked it out, counted to ten in every language he knew, then to twenty. When they broke his arm, he laughed. It appeared they didn't know what to do with him. They left. When they returned with Blunt in tow and a bucket of water, he knew what would come next. He had encountered this kind of brutality before, deep in a Chinese prison. He held firm then. He would hold firm now. He could not lose this fight.

Bravo was still standing in the kitchen. Her hand trailed on the counter top, fingers brushing away lingering dust, and her eyes shifted from wall to wall, regarding the patterned mugs and biscuit tins with a slightly lost expression. There was a cork board behind the door. It was packed full of photos and letters, bills to be paid, a postcard from an old friend, pictures of a young Alex with an older man and a woman - his sister perhaps. They were smiling. Rosie didn't think she'd ever seen her uncle so happy. She took it off and put it in her pocket. She frowned as she saw the letter pinned behind it. It was dated for only about six years previously, a long time after the photo was taken, and was addressed from 'Edward, Rosa, and Sabina.' There was no last name but the letter was handwritten with firm, clear strokes. She took a picture, then changed her mind and started to take all the letters and photos off the board. Bravo had come out of her reverie and wordlessly offered her a carrier bag to put them in. "If you need it, I'll help you." It was the most compassion she had shown towards Rosie in the entire time they had known each other. Something had changed.

 **Author's Note:**

I'm back! I'm sorry you had to wait so long for this chapter but my exams are almost done so you will get more regular updates soon. I was lucky enough to have this chapter mostly finished when I went on hiatus and I've had time to finish it today just for you.

This chapter is dedicated to Sylphrena33, Dobby and Padfoot, and xDarklightx: the most loyal and patient readers/reviewers a writer could ever ask for.

And now, it's reference time. Last chapter it was the Princess Bride which is hilarious in any form and has some great quotes. This time it's a book that might be more obvious if you live in England. When I came up with chapter titles (way back in November, wow), this author had recently released a new book 17 years after the release of this one. I had been waiting for it for so long and I went to the midnight launch to get a signed copy. There is also a film of the first in the trilogy under a different name and it's terrible but the BBC are doing their own adaptation which may have Lin Manuel Miranda in.

I don't know when the next chapter will be up but I'm hoping it'll be sometime next week...maybe.


	11. Chapter 11

Chapter 11- The Ice Does Not Forgive

 **Text from: John**

K unit showed up. We're interrogating Mycroft :-)

Mycroft Holmes had a meeting with Mrs Jones. He could not pretend to like the woman but he could tolerate her when required and today it was certainly required. They were meeting to discuss Rosie and Alex Rider and Sherlock's involvement in the case. Mrs Jones was very clearly not happy. She sucked anxiously at a peppermint with the wrappers of several others scattered across the desk. Her house plant, a gift from Rider, was wilted. Mycroft wasn't used to sitting on this side of the desk, a government man like himself was supposed to be leading the meeting. Mrs Jones placed a paper file on the desk in front of him and he flipped it open to reveal pages of close spaced, size 11 font. He didn't want to read it now but her eyebrow was raised so he began to skim the information. All of it was highly classified and he knew it would never be allowed to leave the room. She stood and began to pace. "You have heard nothing from your brother?" Mycroft shook his head and went back to perusing the data in front of him. "Sherlock is a host unto himself. He does as he pleases, not as he's told." She looked disappointed but said nothing. Mycroft supposed it wasn't in her disposition to display her emotions. "Agent Bravo has yet to report on this morning's activities. We must hope that Dr Watson sends you a message before too long."

Dr Watson was, at that moment, contemplating his imminent death by suicide. He had forgotten just how annoying certain members of K-unit could be, especially after an hour in close quarters with nothing to stave off the boredom. It was Eagle, of course, who was currently acting like a five year old with too much sugar. He chattered; he fidgeted; he pestered John constantly for stories from his old army days. It was enough to drive anyone batty. John tried to be patient, to channel his inner GP and treat him like any other bothersome patient, but it was difficult when he wouldn't leave John alone. By the time they landed, he was about ready to jump out of the plane and save the pilot the trouble. But they were in France now and the mood among the motley crew had turned sombre: they had gone too far to turn back now. John had yet to hear anything else from Sherlock and that would make their search more difficult but John was clever enough to get through medical school, he had spent the past ten years living with the master himself, and both him and K-unit were tenacious enough to survive years of danger, fighting for their lives in far-flung countries. They could do it.

The guest house Sherlock stayed in was cramped and close to derelict. He didn't mind the poor conditions (they were better than the drug dens he had frequented in his youth) but he did turn his nose up at the food. He was on a case! Why were they trying to force food on him? He had, however, procured a map. Now, in the quietness of his darkening room, he searched it for a suitable place to keep a prisoner, tried to put himself in the mind of the criminals he so often hunted, so that he could find probable locations. The problem with being in rural areas was that there were so many places to hide (cities weren't much better but Sherlock chose to ignore that for the time being). He had spoken briefly to some of the villagers who said they hadn't seen the van. It couldn't have gone any further south-east than Steene, where he was staying. In between the fields of wheat and corn were several farms with outhouses perfect for hiding illicit activities but it would take weeks to investigate all of them. He didn't have that kind of time. He would have to narrow it down more. He could discount anything close to the village or anything too exposed. There would need to be space to stow the van and a thick shield of trees or bushes. He circled a few potential candidates and then stopped, his breath catching in his throat. There was a rental cottage. Not too far from the village but not close either, difficult to access and closely guarded by a copse of trees, it was a perfect base for those who didn't want to be found. He circled it in red pen, almost disappointed by how easy it was to find them in the end.

Waterboarding was something Alex was trained to endure but nothing could make it pleasant. After so long being imprisoned, he was weak enough that he couldn't fight off Blunt's men when his face was forced under and he couldn't hold his breath for nearly as long as he would have liked to, or even expected to. He choked and spluttered. The dripping water and Blunt's harsh chuckles mingled and rose to a crashing crescendo that stopped his breath and he couldn't even gasp in a lungful of air before he was forced under again. On and on, over and over, and Alex went from haughty silence to begging, inwardly, for it to stop. But Blunt was asking for information, access codes that would be useless and names of agents that Alex, as a loner, didn't know, so he kept quiet and furious. The fear would not overtake him. By the time they realised he wasn't going to talk and stopped, he was trembling, his chest aching with the force of his coughing. They left him lying on the ground in a widening pool of water, trembling with shivers he couldn't suppress.

Rosie stared in confusion at the papers scattered across the floor of 221B. Mrs Hudson had let her in and told her both Dad and uncle Sherlock had gone out. When she thought Rosie wasn't listening she had complained about the lack of warning and "honestly, those boys should not be left in charge of children. They can't even look after themselves." Rosie thought they were more than capable of surviving without Mrs Hudson's input but she didn't dare say anything to draw attention to herself. Bravo had left her at the end of Baker Street again but she didn't mind that she hadn't taken her all the way to the door: she wasn't a baby after all. But for now, she needed to solve this clue. Her uncle Alex was relying on her. What was it that linked the Rider men? The Royal and General Bank. That was where she was taken yesterday. That was where Mrs Jones and Bravo worked. She recalled the end of Bravo's conversation on the phone: "Bravo out." A radio sign off. And that debriefing that she hadn't listened to, when they addressed employees as 'Agent,' hadn't been normal protocol at all. She had stumbled into something far too large for her limited skills. Trilingual and a master of deduction she may be, but agents and shadowy organisations and missing relatives and strings of deaths? That was her uncle Sherlock's area of expertise. She decided in the meantime to study the contents of the corkboard.

The photos were laid over the articles and letters bundled into two piles for bills and personal letters. The bills were dull and she had no use for them so she set them aside but the letters were another matter entirely. The first one she read was from 'Jack' and was little more than a printed email about her trip to America to visit family. She lingered on the soft tone of address, the familiarity with which she wrote, and couldn't figure out her relation to the man she knew. Next she read the letter from 'Edward, Rosa and Sabina.' This one, too, was tender and yet something was different about their letters (and there was more than one; Rosie recognised the handwriting), something fatherly in the way that 'Edward' addressed him. He said that he did 'understand why you left us, after everything you've been through it makes more sense than any decision you've made while in our care, but I do wish you'd come home' and that 'if, when you think it will be safe to, you decide you want to return, you will always have a place at our table and in our hearts.' But she couldn't find a last name anywhere, in any of the letters. Then she read the letters from Sabina. There were less of them but those that were kept were long and full of random pieces of information: the name of an auntie's pet budgie, the captain of the school football team, and then, hidden in a convoluted tale of college drama, 'Sabina Pleasure is not meant for a career in medicine.' She had found them. There were news articles about them because Edward Pleasure was a high profile journalist and his near death had made national news. Of Alex Rider, there was no mention until a year or so later when a sole newspaper published an article about his adoption. Several years after that came the news that their house had been blown up, and a scorpion scorched into the front lawn.

The call came from Mycroft when they were on the road to Dunkirk. "We need to go to Grand Millebrugge," John told Wolf from the back seat and the grizzled man acknowledged him with a curt nod. He heard Mycroft talking still and listened to the rest of the information. "We're meeting another one of his agents when we get there." They groaned. It was an apparent hatred of the SAS to work with spies. John took a quick glance at the GPS and settled down for the remainder of the drive.

He didn't think any of them were expecting Mycroft's 'agent' to be Ben Daniels, otherwise known as Fox, the ex-SAS soldier who had worked with both K-unit and Alex in the past but in retrospect it made sense. Keeping details of the mission with people who _knew_ about the mission was the logical thing to do and Mycroft was nothing if not logical. They parked the car and walked into the town, taking in the rural setting and relaxed atmosphere. There was one guest house on the outskirts of the town where Sherlock must have stopped for the night. It was easy to walk in through the door and ask the receptionist for the room number of Sherlock Holmes. It was easy to get complacent, until she refused to answer. "Je suis désolé, cette information est confidentielle." They exchanged looks of confusion. Despite the requirement to learn a language, none of them had studied French since A Levels and now they were stuck. It was Ben who saved them. Apparently being a spy in France for the past few days had payed off and he knew a little of what she was saying. Or maybe it was because he had spent some time with Alex. So started a rapid-fire conversation, full of flying hands and scornful tongue-lashings. Ben was a bit frazzled by the end of it but told them she would tell them anything they wanted to know when her shift began the next evening but that they would get nothing out of anyone else. He told them he had booked three rooms for the night and with the afternoon drawing to a close, they trooped up the stairs to their rooms.

 **Author's Note:**

I'm back again! I promised you guys another chapter this week and here we are, up to chapter 11. Chapter 12 is also in the editing stage and should go up later next week (probably Tuesday or Wednesday) with an aim for 15 chapters total. I'm going to try to post two chapters next week and the week after so that I finish the whole thing before my trip. My exams are now over (yay!) so I have infinitely more time to write than before. I decided to up the rating to T because of the description of Alex's treatment in this chapter. I'd actually been considering it for a while and couldn't put it off any longer.

No one guessed last week's reference which I totally get because it had a very niche group. It was from Philip Pullman's 'His Dark Materials' which are a series of British books technically for children but I'm not sure how many people who read them are children. The film of the first book is called 'The Golden Compass' (and it's terrible) which might be the name the book is published under in the US. This time it's another book, this time a YA fantasy novel which I adore. The characters are really diverse and it deals with loads of different social issues. It helps that the covers are beautiful. I'll give you a clue: the same author wrote the Grisha trilogy and this book is set in the same universe.

Thanks so much for your support. Let me know what you think!


	12. Chapter 12

Chapter 12- Raise a Glass to Freedom

 **Text from: John**

 _We are coming_

 **You:**

 _Don't bother_

Sherlock surveilled the area from the tree line. There were more men than he had anticipated but he could avoid them if he tried. There were a few buildings aside from the main house, all small cottages. But even the most picturesque of holiday homes could not hide the truth from Sherlock Holmes. The van he had been tailing was parked on the gravel outside and the people sitting on the porch were far from savoury characters even without the handguns they had so poorly concealed. In the bitter cold of January, they could only be watchmen. He would have to be careful. Although night was falling and they were most likely not expecting an attack, he couldn't afford to be caught. Alex was relying on him.

Night fell and Alex's shivering increased in intensity. He knew he was close to hypothermia, knew he had to get up and _move, God damn it._ But he just didn't have it in him anymore. His hands were still tied and, although he knew he could extricate himself, what would he do then? He was in no fit state to be tangling with guards and he didn't quite trust his luck, or his legs, to be silent in his escape. And so he lay there, still and cold, and waited. For what, he was unsure: rescue? Or maybe for Blunt and his henchman to return for another round. Alex felt tears pricking in the corners of his eyes for the first time in years. He cursed himself. He was supposed to be stronger than this, to be the real life equivalent of James Bond only better, to bring home stories for Rosie. Here he was, a failure of a spy, defeated in a foreign country, waiting for the end he knew would come. He had not failed, though, as a rush of adrenaline coursed through his veins, he had not sold out England's secrets, had kept his silence as per his training. A new determination fueled him and he slipped out of his bindings. Dragging himself onto his hands and knees, he began to move. He was Alex Rider. He wasn't ready to die yet.

John found Sherlock's map with its carefully labelled destination about five minutes after entering the hotel room. He couldn't see why the house in the middle of nowhere had spiked Sherlock's interest but trusted his friend not to lead him astray. He showed the map to Ben. Ben said it was ingenious. No one understood why until he explained that it was the perfect place to hide a prisoner. Sherlock had gone after Alex. Now John would follow. K-unit had expressed disbelief, which was strange given their history, but accompanied John and Ben to the jeep without bidding the receptionist farewell.

The door to the main building was unlocked and Sherlock found this oversight laughable. They had become complacent in the weeks they had been in hiding. There were no guards throughout the house either. Shadows crept up walls and loomed in the dark but he was unafraid. He picked up a knife from the kitchen. He didn't expect to need it but it would be useful at some point he was sure. He couldn't find the basement. He knew that if there was one place a villain would keep a prisoner it was the basement, it had happened more often than he could count, but it was well hidden. He could see no obvious entrance, no door through which he could slink in, no rugs to cover a trap door. The house was small and it didn't take long to search yet he found nothing. Finding himself with nowhere else to check, he decided to explore the boiler closet. Strangely for a house that was clearly inhabited, the boiler itself was off and the dials set to zero. It was particularly unusual for January. He examined the inside of the cramped space with care. The towels were covered in dust and the shelves were unstable but the floor was clear, as was the boiler itself. It had been turned off recently then. It was then that he noticed the scratches on the floor. The back wall, the wall with the boiler, was itself a door. The hinges were strong and the boiler had been emptied of water to make it easier to move. He assumed one of the pipes was a handle and judging by the burnished gleam of copper on his left, it was that one. He grabbed it and pulled. Even at half his strength, it swung open with relative ease to reveal a set of stone stairs. He had found the basement.

Rosie decided her only lead was the Pleasures and found an email address online. It didn't take long to write an email (autocorrect made it even easier than her six year vocabulary could manage) and then she simply had to wait for a reply. When the reply came several hours later she was shocked by his abruptness and paranoia.

 _Ms Watson,_

 _Your email was forwarded to me by my assistant because it involved Alex. I don't know how you learned of our shared past but I urge you to forget it. Nothing good comes from the knowledge that you seek._

 _Alex didn't stay with us for long but I know he values his privacy. He won't appreciate you meddling._

 _Do not contact me again unless it is urgent._

 _Sincerely,_

 _Edward Pleasure._

Well, that was a dead end.

The scorpion was now her only linking point so she turned to Google for research. The scorpion as a symbol is often associated with death, passion, or protection but also treachery. While interesting, the information was mostly worthless, however, so she tried again. She didn't realise until she had pressed enter that she had made a spelling error. She had made a search for 'scorpia' and the computer still gave results. Results that were surprisingly relevant.

The door squeaked open and Alex froze against the floor. He couldn't be sure that whoever it was wasn't an enemy and didn't dare make a sound. The footsteps were not those of the thugs and were not Blunt's elegant tap-tapping. This was an unknown. He brought his feet underneath him, preparing to leap out of the crouch at a moment's notice. Bracing his broken arm against his chest, he prepared for battle. But, the footsteps were hesitant, those of a man unsure of the terrain, and as he descended into Alex's prison the man's face became visible. Alex gasped and stood, ignoring the rush of blood that made him dizzy. "Sherlock?" he asked and the man nodded with a relieved smile. "What are you doing here? How did you find me? Is John here too?" Sherlock explained how he had tracked him down and Alex was impressed, even after years of hearing him solve much more difficult cases. They heard a thud from outside and Alex jumped. "We need to go," he stated and Sherlock made his way back up the stairs, trusting Alex to follow under his own power. He had never been one to coddle people.

They arrived just as the gunfire started. John could see Sherlock running for the tree line, Alex stumbling along behind him. They had escaped. They had been seen. Now they were running for their lives. Wolf was shouting orders at the rest of the unit and all four of them had their guns out. Ben was already on the move, trying to get to the pair who were struggling to make headway with all the bullets flying. The darkness obscured the men. The only indication that they were there was the flash of their rifles as they shot. But they had Eagle, the sniper, and John himself, a crack shot. Sherlock was moving again, Ben supporting Alex as he ran. In all the hubbub, it was impossible to hear what was said and see what was happening. They were lucky. The gunfire was dying down so they must have taken out most of the men who were hidden. It was then that they heard the cry, saw Alex buckle and fall, and William began to run.

 **Author's Note:**

I promised another chapter this week and it's later than I planned but I've been really busy. This week has been a non-stop party for me and my friends because we're celebrating the end of exams. I hadn't planned to post this until I was at least halfway through the next chapter but I gave up and decided to post this anyway.

A note on the google search thing: I am more than aware that a normal google search would not yield any results about Scorpia because it's a secret organisation but I like to think that maybe Sherlock, with all his ties to some unscrupulous people, would be connected to the dark net which _would_ produce a result.

The chapter title from the last chapter is from Six of Crows by Leigh Bardugo which is a great book and I highly recommend it. This time it's a repeat of an earlier source: a musical which I will be seeing in the theatre this summer! (Can you tell I'm excited?)

Hope you enjoy the chapter. Let me know what you think by leaving a review below. I appreciate every comment that you leave and any constructive criticism is invaluable so thank you.


	13. Chapter 13

Chapter 13- Renewed Shall be Blade That was Broken

 **Text from: Sab**

 _Dad said he got an email from some kid who said she was your neighbor. Are you in trouble?_

The chaos that ensued was muted by shock. There were yells and the ground trembled and lights flashed but it all seemed far away somehow, as if he was viewing it from behind a screen. All that he felt was pain. It consumed him. He couldn't even tell where exactly the pain was coming from, only that it existed. There was an arm around his waist, a voice shouting from beside him, hands lifting him and prodding him, and he couldn't take any more. Darkness floated on the edge of his vision, lapping at his consciousness like waves on a beach. He gave in to it and it embraced him, oblivion welcoming him as an old friend.

Rosie scrolled through page after page of search results, eyes growing wider by the second. Murder and exploitation and scandal and terrible thing after terrible thing. And the names it brought forth: Julia Rothman, Winston Yu, Nickolei Drevin, Damian Cray; they matched the deaths that her uncle had caused. What was he involved with? All this death and destruction and crime and punishment. Was he a member? Or had he stopped them? Was he their friend or their foe? Was he good or evil? Everything she thought she knew had been turned on its head. She had followed his clues and this is what she had found but she hadn't wormed her way into the truth yet. She needed to know about the Royal and General.

When she rang the number Bravo had given her the day before, she didn't expect anyone to answer. Yet before it had even rang twice, Bravo picked up and asked what was wrong. "The Royal and General is a cover for something. What?" Bravo was silent for a moment. Her response was considered and measured. "Something that will keep you safe."

"And Scorpia?" Rosie could not ignore the hitch in Bravo's breath, her shock a hearing _that_ word.

"I'll be around soon."

Sometimes Sherlock hated being right. This was one of those times. The man in grey was walking towards them with a shark-like grin that wouldn't have been amiss on the face of a sleazy businessman. He should know this man, he thought, but the face was too normal, his clothing too bland, his walk too common, and there was nothing about him to mark him out from the crowded blur of faces Sherlock saw every day. They could pass by on the street and he wouldn't glance at him twice except for his one overwhelming deduction. This man was dangerous. His ordinariness was a mask for his abnormality, his drab grey suit a cloak for his exceptional skills. He was clever, quick and shifty like a fox, but Sherlock did not fear he had met his match. The only one who came close was dead. Their standoff didn't last long. They were a crew of seven against one man. Eagle was still hidden with his sniper rifle and he wasn't going to stand for his friend being injured. His shot granted him a quick death that he didn't truly deserve.

In London, Mrs Jones met with security agencies to attempt to control the situation. The Americans wanted answers about their old contracted agents, the French wanted to know what soldiers were doing on their soil, the British government were baying for blood (and thank God for Mycroft holding them back because she really couldn't deal with them today, thank you very much). Agent Bravo had gone off the grid and that was even more unhelpful than the tech department trying to track the SAS team down. She couldn't even consider that she had gone awol because she _needed_ good news right now. Her phone rang for the fifth time in an hour and she groaned, head in her hands, before picking it up. It was Agent Bravo. She did not have good news. "She knows."

The helicopter ride back to England was silent but for the beeping of hospital machinery. William's hands were red with blood but he had done little to clean it off. Ben sat nearby with his head in his hands. The mood was sombre. John would have taken the annoying, hyperactive Eagle of the outward trip to the still, bereft Eagle that sat beside him now. His phone chimed with a series of messages from Mrs Hudson.

 _Rosie is with that woman again. She's talking about Alex._

 _And Scorpia._

 _I'm going to ask her to leave._

John stared at his phone in horror. Rosie was only six; she wasn't ready to know about her neighbour's sordid past. He could do without the extra stress and told Mrs Hudson so but she didn't respond. He stood and, hunched in the cramped interior of the helicopter, made his way to Alex's bedside. The young man (and he was still young in John's mind, still little more than a child even though he was nearing thirty) was pale as death and still unconscious, drugged into oblivion by pain medication and anesthetic. He was stable. But back home he would have a long way to go and there was every chance that he would never be the Alex they knew. It pained John to see such things. He could only imagine how Ben felt. The man was as close to Alex as any, a confidant for all things spy related, a voice of reason in the tumbling disorder of his life. He had blunted the force of Alex's fall back into the violence of his past, the betrayal of MI6 as they dragged him back to them for the second time. And look where it had got him: half dead in a helicopter, tortured by his old employer. It was terrible. Placing a hand on Ben's shoulder, he sat beside the man. "It's not your fault, you know. Something like this would have happened eventually, he knew that, you knew that, we all knew that. He chose this path anyway. He's stubborn. Don't lose hope yet."

In his dreams, Alex is at home in London. It is Christmas and the tree sparkles with the multi-coloured glowing lights his uncle hated. Rosie beams as she unwraps present after present and Mrs Hudson is cooking a feast fit for a king. Over the strains of cheesy Christmas pop music, Jack is laughing. He catches a glimpse of red hair flashing in the doorway and he gives chase, out into the street but it is strange and distorted, a mix of two different homes. He hears the laugh again and the music crackles and fades and dies. The laugh dies with it. He sees the end of her scarf around the corner and he runs, skidding on ice and sludge as he turns into the scorching heat of Egypt. There she is: the sister he lost all those years ago. She floats towards him, smile soft on her face. "Oh, Alex," she whispers, placing one hand on his cheek, "you grew up so fast. I've missed you, kiddo." She is crying silently and Alex wants nothing more than to wipe her tears away. He cannot. She is a mirage, a phantom, if he touches her she will cease to exist and yet there is only him and her and her voice tethering him to existence. "Are you ready for this? There's no going back." She seems nervous, uneasy, and she is warning him of something but the sky behind her is splitting into white, the sand is swirling around them and there is only them, together and yet apart. "You must choose: your new family and life, or the end and me. But you can only choose once and I cannot hold it off much longer. Are you ready?" Alex does not trust himself to speak. His heart is pounding and they are both crying and how can he _choose_ between his past and his present when either could be his future? Her eyes are blazing blue and full of pride and he knows what he has to do. He swallows down tears and nods. She beans at him, her glowing radiance becoming real as she hugs him one last time and she is gone.

Alex wakes up.

 **Author's Note:**

I am so sorry for leaving you hanging like that!

This chapter took much longer to write than anticipated and I've been stupidly busy getting ready for my trip and then I was a finalist in a writing competition so I had to go to Oxford (it took us _six hours_ to get back when it should have taken two) for a prize giving. But here you are. I give you a chapter to enjoy for the next three weeks while I'm away. I would post something while I'm gone except I'm not sure how legal it is where I'm going (anyone from Zambia?) so I'll leave it until I'm home.

Last update had a chapter title from Hamilton. This one is not easy, per se, but isn't hard if you like fantasy because it's basically the origin of modern high fantasy (and the giant spider trope but that's another story). Another clue, the author was friends with C.S. Lewis and all three films are massively long.

I'm playing around with tenses and writing style in this chapter, as you can see. Any constructive criticism (or comments at all) are greatly appreciated. Please let me know what you think.


	14. Chapter 14

Chapter 14- Life Isn't Made of Choices

 **Text from: Tom**

 _Hey mate. You back in london yet?_

Bravo didn't want to talk. It was obvious in the tense set of her shoulders, the tap-tapping of her sharp nails on the table, the tight grip on her mug as she sipped her tea. Her eyes scanned the room and settled in hidden corners but she did nothing about whatever she was suspicious of, only stared. Rosie opened her mouth to question her and Bravo raised a hand for silence. Rosie let out a quiet humph and crossed her arms. The chair was too big and she let her legs swing as she waited for Bravo to be ready. "How did you find out about Scorpia?" were the first words out of Bravo's mouth and Rosie simply shook her head. She was supposed to be asking the questions. "Tell me about Scorpia," she responded, "Google can only get you so far." Bravo sighed and rolled her eyes in that familiar way of hers. She wasn't sure why she was so annoyed: she had answered Bravo's question. "Scorpia is… complicated. They are criminals, bad ones, far worse than anything you've seen your father and uncle face before. Very few encounter them and live to tell of it. Alex is one of them. But don't worry, they're all gone now anyway." Rosie was unimpressed by this answer and told her so. "They're terrorists, assassins. They sabotage and spy and kill without mercy. Well, they used to anyway, before the Incident." She paused, frowned and began again. "What you've got to understand about Alex is that he was working for the Bank before me and he'll probably be there after. Scorpia and Alex tangled before my time. I can't tell you everything." Mrs Hudson was lurking in the background. She appeared to be wiping a countertop but Rosie knew she was eavesdropping. "The Bank is a front for something," Rosie began slowly, "but for what?"

"Military Intelligence." 

The journey to the hospital after they landed was fraught with tension. Mycroft had been there to meet them, along with several trusted medical professionals from a private hospital in central London. They whisked Alex away and K-unit were taken for debriefing. Sherlock and John stood alone to face Mycroft. He shook John's hand and thanked him formally but John detected a slight warming of his voice. Mycroft was happy to see his brother in one piece. "Brother, does it amuse you to have your friends clearing up your messes or was this another unfortunate accident? I've been on the phone with the French ambassador for hours and I really can't fathom why you thought such an extreme course of action was a good idea. When we asked you to investigate it was with strict instructions to report any findings to myself or Mrs Jones first, precisely to avoid this sort of fiasco." Sherlock looked bored. No doubt he had heard this lecture, or variants of it, hundreds of times before. Mycroft wasn't finished yet though. "For what it's worth, I'm not displeased with the outcome and I know Mrs Jones will be overjoyed to have her favourite spy back but please, Sherlock, for all our sakes, stop assuming that we don't care." Deciding his brother had been suitably chastised, Mycroft turned and stalked away, umbrella swinging from his fingers. Not Anthea held the door open for him and they were left on the roof in silence. 

Alex had been in many hospitals over the years. Always, he had woken alone. This time, there was someone sitting beside him in the visitor's chair, flowers in a vase on the table and a number of cards propped up wherever there was space. The room smelt of peppermint. Slowly, painfully, he turned his head to one side. Mrs Jones stared back at him, a report clasped in her hands. She appeared composed and Alex tried to ignore the tears in her eyes. "Alex, you had us all so worried." He swallowed and opened his mouth to reply but his throat was too dry. She shook her head and tsked at him. "Honestly, you must be more careful. Allowing yourself to get kidnapped like that? You could have been killed!" He gave up trying to muster the energy to speak and simply watched her grow agitated. "As it is, we'll have to see how your recovery goes. You'll be out of the field for a long time, maybe for good, but that doesn't matter. Get some rest, Alex, your friends will be in to see you once they finish harassing the doctors." She stood, report still in her hand, and left, heels clicking against the linoleum floor. 

The door had barely swung shut behind Mrs Jones before they came barging in. Sherlock lingered at the back while K-unit fretted and fumbled with attempted messages of support. Alex looked tired, he thought, and glanced at John. John was still reading diligently over the doctor's prognosis. It wasn't good, Sherlock could tell. The creases between his eyes were back and the deep wrinkles on his forehead. When K-unit finally quietened, Alex waved at Sherlock weakly with his good arm, the other held close to his chest. "So, what's the verdict, doctor?" he asked and John swallowed. The news must be terrible, then. John pointed first to his arm, casted and strapped to his chest. "You have a Holstein-Lewis fracture to your upper arm, that's the most complicated injury. The bone is broken and twisted so it trapped the radial nerve. It will take over a month to heal and even then you may nerve regain full use of your arm and hand. The bullet wound to your leg was an in-and-out. It went straight through, damaged some muscle but missed the major arteries. Most of the rest is bruising and lacerations but they need to keep you in for the concussion and to keep an eye on your chest for fluid in the lungs." The man named Ben let out a low whistle as the list ended but Alex rolled his eyes at him. He gestured to his chest at a spot over his heart and waved a finger. Ben sighed and patted his shoulder. The exchange confused Sherlock but Alex seemed comfortable and well enough for the time being. They could only stay until the nurse returned but trusted that he would be safe. 

It was late when Mrs Jones returned. Darkness had fallen hours before and his dinner had already been served. The nurses final checks had been conducted, the lights dimmed and the doors locked. And yet Mrs Jones was in his room. He felt a bit better than he had in the morning and more than capable of conversation. Their voices were hushed and furtive in the darkness. "I'm sending in our best to conduct your psychological evaluation tomorrow. Be prepared."

"Tulip, I'm fine. You don't need to worry about me."

"I'm not worried, Alex; it's protocol."

"I know you, remember? You're worried, I can tell. Seriously, Blunt and his men are gone, I'm recovering, everything is just fine."

"You and I both know that's not true. Don't rush yourself, Alex, allow yourself time to recover."

"Well I'm not much use to you with this arm, am I?"

"There's no hurry. I'm half tempted to retire you from field work, whether you like it or not. This has gone on far too long."

"I'll think about your offer."

"That's all I ask."

She left papers and a lingering smell of peppermint that wouldn't quite fade before morning.

 **Author's Note:**

I'm alive!

I am so sorry for leaving you hanging for so long but life has been busy. I was away for 3 weeks with internet that was potty at best, non-existent at worst and I was too busy to write anyway. Then, when I finally got back, my parents decided to leave for a week so I was in charge of the house and my sister. On top of that, the weather here has been _insane._ What the hell, Mother Nature?! I come back from _Africa_ to temperatures in the high 30s (celsius) and no rain. It was horrible. I couldn't write anything because my laptop was burning my legs, it was so hot. Now the weather has broken and it's raining cats and dogs. I can finally write and this chapter has been rattled out in about 2 hours with no editing so sorry if it's not the best.

Thanks to everyone who left a review for the last chapter. Your comments are, as always, appreciated beyond belief.

Sylphrena33- My exams were kind of meh. English was pretty good but I have very high standards so I don't know whether it was as good as other exams. Biology was terrible. If you're curious, look at the OCR Biology hashtag on Twitter and you should get an idea. Chemistry didn't seem as terrible at the time but thinking back on it... I don't know. Maybe I'm overthinking it. Anyway, I looked at your opinions on the last chapter and I'm going to do something about the formatting because there was at least double spacing between POV changes but it disappeared when I copied the chapter over for whatever reason. I might add some more detail in when I do because you're right about that as well but when I wrote it I just wanted to get a chapter up so I wasn't too fussed about quality (I really should have been but oh well). Thanks for the praise. I love happy readers!

The reference last time was Lord of the Rings and I love that a guest made that comment. "LOTR?" Iconic. This time it's another book series but it's kind of obscure again. Written by V.E. Schwab who did the Tolkien lecture this year, these are the books that got my sister back into reading. Lots of parallel universes, pirates, history and magic. I love them and the covers are so pretty.

I won't be able to update until the very end of next week at the earliest because of life (again) but that should be the last chapter. Don't fret, loyal readers! I will give you some one shots and stuff at some point but I'm hopefully going to uni in September so time will be an issue again (watch this space for post-results day screaming next weekend). I'm not going to abandon you though, don't worry.


	15. Chapter 15

Chapter 15- Family Doesn't End With Blood

 **Text from: John**

 _Rosie wants to see you today. Is that ok with you?_

It was difficult to explain to Rosie exactly what had happened to Alex. "His homicidal ex-boss kidnapped him and tried to make him murder his current boss to destabilise the British government" didn't translate well to a six year old. Instead he told her Alex had been taken hostage because of his job and needed help getting out because he was injured. Rosie came with them to the hospital that day. Visiting hours were shorter because it was a Sunday but John knew both Rosie and Alex would appreciate the gesture. Alex's room was on one of the upper floors, partially so he was more secluded, partially for security and partially to stop him from just leaving. Rosie bounded up to his bed and settled on the side, giving him a massive hug that, John could tell, jostled his injured arm but his expression didn't change beyond a slight tightening of his grin. "Rosie, you're squashing him." His daughter squeaked and let go, slipping into the chair beside the bed instead. Alex was still grinning though and looked much more cheerful than he had last time John had visited. He supposed it was because of Rosie; Alex had always had a soft spot for her. Closing the door behind him, John moved to sit in the other chair, paying little attention to the conversation between the two. It was not his business to intervene.

* * *

Alex had had far too much time in his own head recently and Rosie's arrival was a welcome relief. He could talk about such trivial things with her and they would seem wondrous. Secretly, he was hoping she wouldn't bring up his treasure hunt across London but luck was not on his side, for once. "Is it true you once stopped a nuclear bomb?" He could only tell her the truth: Rosie had always been able to sniff out the truth.

"Yes, it is true. How about I tell you a story, one you've never heard before? I promise you, it's absolutely true." She nodded eagerly and he knew he had distracted her for the time being. "Well, the child spy, Alex Rider, having been shot by the villainous Julia Rothman, was staying in a hospital not unlike where we are now. In the room next door was a boy named Paul and they became good friends. Young boys trapped together often do. Except one day some men came to kidnap Alex, to punish him for the death of their leader, and, mistaking a 5 for a 6, took Paul instead. Now Alex, being the sneaky, tenacious teenager he was, decided to fight back and rescued his friend from the kidnappers by way of some booby traps. This is all very important because the boy's father was a very rich and influential man (Alex seemed to befriend people who would otherwise shun him with apparent ease) who was developing a very special hotel. A hotel that would go to space!" As he told the story, Rosie became more and more entranced and even John chuckled a few times in disbelief. His loss, really. The story _was_ true and no amount of cynicism could change that.

* * *

It had been Blunt. Blunt who had stood by Tulip for her entire career, Blunt who had promoted her when no one else saw her as more than a secretary, Blunt who had taught her everything she knew. It had been Blunt. Inwardly, she was not exactly surprised: it was no shock that ruthless, cold-hearted Blunt would stoop to kidnapping and torture to reach his ends. And yet, he had always seemed so mild mannered, so bland, a relic of their organisation. She often forgot he had advanced through the ranks long before her time by being hardened and unsympathetic. Sighing, she placed the file in the ever expanding drawer dedicated to Alex Rider and pondered what to do. She couldn't allow Rider into the field again. Most likely he would try to insist he was fine but she knew a breaking man when she saw one. The last time had been 10 years ago. Now he had another family and he would lose it if this kind of thing kept happening. A man like Alex had a lot of enemies. She had given Alex an offer, the carrot in front of the donkey, and now she had to wait for him to take the bait. She hoped he would do it without a struggle. For now, she had the entirety of MI6 to run, beginning with Agent Bravo.

* * *

Ben was avoiding Alex. He hadn't meant to, his intentions had been to visit as often as possible and for as long as possible, but life had gotten in the way. A pipe had burst in his flat (he was ignoring the fact that he had caused said burst pipe) and he had to wait for the plumber. Then his neighbour had asked him to fix their car (the tyre had gone flat and it _was not_ because Ben had stuck a nail in it). After all that, he had to wait for the Tesco delivery (his neighbour had offered to stay for delivery but Ben had refused). He wasn't even sure why he was avoiding Alex so diligently. It wasn't like any of what had happened was his fault, it was no one's fault but Blunt's really, but he felt responsible in a way he couldn't explain. So he stayed away from the hospital and Alex's room while everyone else visited. But eventually he had to see him and he knew it would have to be soon.

It was a miserable day, cold and wet with rain falling in sheets of freezing needles. He pulled his coat closer around him and tugged his scarf up across his face. In one hand were his keys and lunch, in the other was a helium balloon bobbing on its string. Up the stairs and along the corridor; up another flight and then turn left. The door was shut but he could see Alex sitting up in bed. He was alone which meant John had taken Rosie home. He tucked his lunchbag under his arm and raised a hand to knock. Alex called out to him before he could an he pushed the door open with his raised fist instead.

Ben thought Alex looked awful. The bags under his eyes were deep enough to hold a week's shopping and his smile was weaker than the sun on a February morning. He had not rested and it concerned Ben: in their line of work, rests were few and far between. Personally, Ben liked to sleep and occasionally go to see the footie. Alex liked to meet up with one of his school friend's and his mates, spending his time in London with his friends and neighbours. Yet here in the hospital, there were no old mates to visit, no neighbours to share a cuppa with, just sterile floors and empty rooms. Ben didn't envy Alex being trapped there and told him so but Alex was far more accepting than he had expected and just shrugged. He seemed lost in thought and maybe that was why he hadn't slept. The balloon was weighted down near the bedpost and Ben settled down to eat his lunch while Alex picked at his hospital food. He knew Alex would talk eventually. It was only a matter of time.

"Mrs Jones visited last night." Ben stayed silent but he was sure his distaste was visible. "She was… nice. It was strange; she seemed to actually care what happens next." Ben couldn't stay quiet about this kind of manipulation. Honestly, Alex should know better after so many years surrounded by it. "You know as well as I do that she just wants you back so you can be sent out again, Alex." There was a flash of a bitter grin and Ben hated that Alex had turned out like this, so world weary and cynical instead of the curious child he had been. "I know, but this time she seemed genuine. She gave me an offer. I can take a year to sort myself out, maybe go back to school, whatever, and then she'll give me a job in any department I choose. If not, she'll just let me go and I can find a job elsewhere. Either way, she's banned me from field work." Ben's lunch lay forgotten in his lap. Mrs Jones was the sneaky, unyielding master of MI6. She had not gotten there by making friends or being kind. And yet, she had given Alex this offer. Alex alone of all their field agents was valued enough to save and Ben couldn't pretend he wasn't a little bit jealous. "I don't know what to do, Ben. I never had a choice like this before. Is it a trap? What does she want?" Ben died a little inside at his anguish and cursed MI6 for ruining this poor young man, so desperate for advice that he shouldn't have needed. He shook his head sadly "I don't know, Alex. Only you can make that kind of decision."

* * *

Rosie watched the rain fall and wondered why it didn't snow. In London, a faint dusting sent everyone into a panic and obviously there would be no school. If there was no school she could spend the day with Alex. He had arrived home late the evening before and settled immediately back into the flat he had left. Mrs Hudson was helping him, although she still insisted she was the landlady 'not your housekeeper' (everyone else knew she had adopted the role of grandmother the minute Rosie and John came to live in 221B again). Rosie was allowed to see Alex only after school and only for a few hours because they didn't want to tire him but Rosie knew that if he were to be left alone too much he would become lost in his own mind again. So she wished for snow. Snow did not come but she visited Alex in the afternoon and spent hours talking, telling the stories from his childhood. "I have a story," she told him and she spoke of his clues and Agent Bravo and meeting Mrs Jones and the legend of Scorpia that no one really believed existed. When she finished, he clapped and told her he was proud. She wanted to ask for more details that Bravo had missed but her dad came to drag her upstairs for dinner and then there were chores and school work and her questions were forgotten. The next day, Alex told her he was going to stay in London, that Mrs Jones was going to find him a safe job that would keep him close but that was months away and for now he could answer anything she wanted answering. Rosie settled down to hear another story. She had found the truth.

 **Author's Note:**

Well, that took longer than expected. Honestly, I'm so sorry for how long this took and I know I kept you all waiting. Hopefully this wraps up all the loose ends and sort of appeases you. In my defense, I've been so _so_ busy for the past few weeks with uni offers and exam grade investigations and my cousins visiting and then I worked for the whole weekend two weekends in a row which was hell. And I saw Hamilton! It was amazing and I highly recommend even if you've listened to the soundtrack way too many times (like me).

Thank you so much to everyone who has reviewed in the last 9 months (and wow I was not expecting it to go on this long). It's been an amazing journey and you're all brilliant. I'm not making any promises but I may give you all a little present around Christmas time so watch this space!

The last chapter title was from A Darker Shade of Magic by V.E. Schwab if you want to check it out. This time is another one that's been done before. One of the tumblr big three (if you ever want to send me a message or a fic request privately, find me on tumblr at stormleviosa).

To Sylphrena 33 who is probably still internally seething about the formatting: I tried and failed to fix it last time so I've added line breaks which hopefully will work. Sorry for that ?

So this is the final chapter, the end of an era, the conclusion to the essay, the end of the line and I hope you've had as much fun as I have. Please leave a review below to let me know what you think.


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